


Pyrotechnics

by kinglychan (avius)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Metaphors, Minghao-centric, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Pining, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, Stickynotes, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Seungkwan, Weed, agender chan, blowjob, but its lowkey, everyone is there! everyone is gay!, genderflux joshua, i swear itll get there, side pairings give enough fluff to make it bareable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-07-13 08:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16014212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avius/pseuds/kinglychan
Summary: Seokmin, Minghao knew with certainty, was a wood fireplace. Sturdy, and central to home. Golden, mesmerising in its joyous and evermoving grace, craved on a cold day. Humble and hearty and beautiful.In the same way, Mingyu was a matchstick. Illuminating, and all compasing. Ordinary, yet stunning, and fiercely energetic. Captivating, and trailblazing and sustaining and uplifting.But on days where the cold seeped into his bones, the ligaments between becoming nothing but chilling loneliness, Minghao was simply unable to absorb their warmth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my baby, so I have prewritten parts and not others and is very subject to editing. Consider this a public beta. I hope you enjoy and stick around for any chapters to come.

Seokmin, Minghao knew with certainty, was a wood fireplace. Sturdy, and central to home. Golden, mesmerising in its joyous and evermoving grace, craved on a cold day. Humble and hearty and beautiful.

 

In the same way, Mingyu was a matchstick. Illuminating, and all compasing. Ordinary, yet stunning, and fiercely energetic. Captivating, and trailblazing and sustaining and uplifting.

 

But on days where the cold seeped into his bones, the ligaments between becoming nothing but chilling loneliness, Minghao was simply unable to absorb their warmth.

 

And what was he? A house candle? Tepid and sweet smelling and easily forgotten? A bushfire? Destructive and volatile and unpredictable? A cigarette? Corrosive and slow burning and shameful? Most likely.

 

Minghao pulls the blunt from his lips with distaste, all well knowing one drawl was not nearly enough to cut out his fuzzing mind but not extinguishing such hopes until the last moment. He exhales slowly into his makeshift muffler as the locks of the front door jangle. Minghao takes another hit before waving away the cloud with a cough.

 

“Must you still smoke in the house?” Mingyu’s heavy size-twelve boots clatter obnoxiously against the skirting board, testing Minghao’s already thin temper. 

 

“Not a house,” he replies, throat a little raspy with smoke and snark, and drops his head on the back of the couch. Mingyu approaches him upside down, “It’s a flat.”

 

“I hate you,” Mingyu snarls, but not without a ruffle of Minghao’s fringe that hangs low with gravity. There’s a finger-painted smudge of blue paint on his cheekbone, and glitter in his hair. The words fall disjointedly in Minghao’s ears.

 

“Love you too,” Minghao smiles cheekily, trying to repress the bile that crept up his throat at the words. He isn’t afforded long to dwell before Mingyu reaches long limbs over the couch to snatch his tray from his grasp.

 

“Don’t be an arsehole Gyu. You let Minnie smoke,” Minghao retorts, tone more clipped than necessary. Mingyu is oblivious to his whines, placing the kit on the shelf that only he can reach, before washing his hands.

 

“Seokie only smokes by the window,” Mingyu says without looking up, which wasn’t entirely true but more so than could be said for Minghao. Seokmin had practically claimed that corner though. He’s got the comfiest chair in the world — an ugly but homely brown corduroy — with the arm flush against the sil, within view of the tiny television but one latch away from fresh air and the neighbouring greenway on the street. Minghao usually smoked when and where the other two existed, lounging on the second-hand two-seater if Mingyu was cooking or in the built in tub as Seokmin sang in the shower. Recently, he has taken to smoking in the lounge regardless of the other boys. To be fair, neither positions had great ventilation. 

 

Mingyu opened the fridge, checking ingredients for whatever meal he could pull together for their dinner. “Unlike someone, you prick.”

 

“Don’t be unfair on our Haoie,” Seokmin’s sleep ridden voice echoes down the hallway, the shoulders of two boys in the living-dining area visibly softening. He shuffles in moments later with unmatched fleece socks, hands on hips and eyes flicking between the others with amusement.

 

“Sorry baby, did we wake you?” Mingyu calls out, maneuvering himself to wrap his arms around the shorter’s waist and tucking his chin on his shoulder. Minghao flinches at the pet name. 

 

Seokmin just shrugs, ever the pacifist, and keeps his voice light, “Should’ve woken up soon anyway.” He turns, nose bumping affectionately with Mingyu’s. “Also you’re only soft on me to keep me around.” 

 

“Why do you say ‘our Haoie’ as if you’re my parents?” Minghao grunts, growing more and more sour by the moment. Mingyu tilts his head, so well attuned to Minghao’s strings. Minghao can’t shake the image of a inquisitive puppy so instead chooses to focus the pout that had settled on Seokmin’s lips.

 

“You’ve always been our Haoie,” Seokmin draws out the syllables, pulling Mingyu over to the couch. He tugs on Mingyu’s arms, draping himself over Minghao’s shoulders and causing the three to fall into a pile. 

 

Minghao’s heart swells, ears burning, managing to utter a retort before he got to overwhelmed by the warmth of Mingyu and Seokmin’s laughter in his hair. “I only let you call me that to keep you around.”

 

“Well, it worked,” Mingyu grumbles. 

 

Seokmin just smiles, asking about Mingyu’s day at the early learning centre, something about whether Tobias’ mum had finally cleared up his lice. Minghao’s thoughts, whilst genuinely invested in the story and hoping he’d not have to comb through Mingyu’s hair, stray inevitably to Mingyu’s hand that had found the small of Seokmin’s back.

 

He was still acclimatising.

 

The pair had gotten together give or take two weeks ago. It had been fifteen days, but Minghao pretended to himself he wasn’t counting. As of the moment, he tried chalking his standoffish behaviour down to some insecurities. After all, it’s not everyday that your best friends of five years, and roommates of two, start dating. 

 

It’s a shift in dynamic that Minghao hadn’t prepared for, and a disruption to the calm and content routine established far too long ago to be easily morphed. It wasn’t as if the relationship came as a shock, but Minghao had always assumed that their unique borderline-not-platonic-anymore friendship between the trio would stay as just that. A trio. And the notion of the Seokmin and Mingyu taking a leap into exploring a connection between them, and not just a specialty in the friendship they shared, left Minghao tripping half a step behind. 

 

They were overly conscious of the decisions they had made, however. For a group of guys in their mid-twenties, they had all learned to navigate emotionally loaded decisions with great care. So what didn’t come as a shock to Minghao was the way in which he was sat down — casually during a game show they were collectively watching only to chew time — and offered the preposition of being a bystander to the relationship. He was, after all, only a bystander, and the two, despite their furrowed brows and repetitions of “Are you sure?”, still had tangled hands and stroking thumbs through it all. For some reason, no doubts or discomforts had clouded him at that point. Numbly, he was resigned to nodding, but became consumed by their interlocked hands.

 

The first time Minghao had ever held hands with someone, outside of primary school games and crossing the road as a toddler, was with Mingyu. Minghao was shaking, layers of tears caked on his cheeks and lips bitten red raw. He was stressed out of his mind, overwhelmed by the world. It was then, as Mingyu burst into their shared university dorm after receiving a typo ridden text for help, that Minghao felt warm hands encase his own. Silently, that moment became pivotal to the blend of their relatively new friendship into something more lifelong and substantial. Now, he couldn’t help that feel Seokmin and Mingyu, whose hands had claimed the residency of Minghao’s own in casual settings and one’s of crisis, no longer had a need for that.

 

His worries, whilst admittedly narrow at the time, were proven valid. Minghao didn’t realise the extent to which he valued casual physical affection until it was gone.

 

“Are you even listening?” Seokmin whines, waving a mug laden hand in front of Minghao’s face. When did he make coffee? “Take yours before it gets cold.”

 

He gets handed over the other mug, the billows of steam fogging Minghao’s glasses. The couch dips on his left, Mingyu’s hands snaking around his shoulders. This is new. This is nice.

 

“You’ve been zoning out all week, Hao,” And Mingyu pouts. So they had noticed after all. “What’s up, pup?”

 

Minghao could only scoff at the new alias. “You’re the only pup here, Gyu.” His tone was blunt, but Minghao’s chest had doubled in warmth and his faith in inclusion was restored by a little. His gaze shifts to the tray, newly returned to the coffee table.

 

“I told you Gyu, that line only works for you,” Seokmin laughs at his (boyfriend? boyfriend.) with fond eyes. Minghao, enraptured by the soft fingertips that tapped on his shoulder that he had been craving for the past fortnight, took a few moments to comprehend. Of course, Mingyu was just reusing an affectionate phrase pre-exchanged between the — romantically involved — pair. Minghao knew then, rather belatedly, that this dynamic shift was more permanent than he had hoped.

 

Minghao shrugs off the affection and attention, sitting on the edge of his seat to pack a bowl and gather his laptop to sit in Seokmin’s chair. 

 

It’s an hour later when his phone pings again from the kitchen bench, the vibrations loud in the room. It’s a division update email that he also received via the laptop on his knees. Minghao leans out the window. Since he first lit the bowl, he has been unbothered to move. Mingyu had put something to simmer on the stove and headed for the shower, with as little as a thank you for smoking by the window. There are emails and spreadsheets to plough through — dull administrative work — but he hasn’t touched the keyboard since he sat down. The text he had received prior to Mingyu even coming home returned to his thoughts unwillingly.

 

_ ‘Your work these past two weeks have been sub-par. You are three clients behind schedule, Xu. I may be inclined to let this blip slip under my radar with anyone else, but I expect so much better than this for someone whose work is usually outstanding. Fix it before the end of the week or we’ll chat. JWW.’ _

 

“You’re struggling at work?”

 

Mingyu’s hair drips onto the benchtop as his glare bores into Minghao’s skull. He ignores the bare chest in favour of scowling.

 

“You’re reading my texts?” he retorts, hoping the hostility would drop the subject. He wishes Seokmin, the resident peace-maker, would peek his head out of his bedroom like earlier. He packs and lights another bowl. He figures he’ll need it.

 

“Well, you barely talk to us these days, so,” Mingyu’s voice always gets squeakier when it comes to confrontation, “Were you even going to tell us about this?”

 

It might have been the way ‘us’ was used, or the accusation which Minghao knew couldn’t’ve been more hypocritical, but it set something off-kilter deep within Hao.

 

“Oh, so I’m the one being exclusive,” his voice cuts, accented lilt stronger with the emotion of the statement. Minghao shuts his laptop, retrieving all of his paraphernalia before walking over to the taller and exhaling the cloudy smoke directly into his face. He snatches his phone from Gyu’s hands and storms off to his bedroom. 

 

He opens his door well into the early morning to find Seokmin has left a tupperware of dinner and a thermos of coffee by the doorframe. There’s a message, Seokmin’s handwritten script looping across the fluorescent yellow sticky note, that Minghao throws to the side of his desk until he finishes the entire flask of coffee and decides to pull an all nighter. 

 

‘Dinner tasted shittier without you. We can talk when you’re ready to. I love you Haoie.’

 

Minghao is determined to hold his resolve, but can’t help but melt at the affection. Seokmin has always been his soft spot. He turns the note over to give himself a piece of mind and not have to face it when he tries to finish off a design for a web ad, but fails when he sees Mingyu’s more clean, textbook printing.

 

‘Rude of him to say it was shittier. Rude of me to invade your privacy. I’m sorry, just worried. Also hurry up and let me back into that wonderful mind of yours Xu Minghao.’

 

Minghao manages a nap before he has to wake up for work. He sleeps peacefully of coffee and two warm kisses.

 

Minghao tries to not let his grievances show on his face when he lazies into work that next morning. Tucking his company shirt and generously more flattering opened button up into his black jeans, he jumps off the bus with a resigned wave. His boots scuff the pavement as his fingers wind his headphones habitually. Minghao had tried to reassure himself that he wasn’t over compensating for the weird shift from the regular at home, but as he notices he’s arrived at the door a minute earlier than usual (thanks to two roommates far too enraptured in each other's company to pester him for his own), he stands awkwardly until passing the threshold at precisely 8:56.

 

Vernon was standing there, beside the elevator, watching the entire embarrassing ordeal through the windowed wall. An especially puzzled tone twists around his usual grin, alerting to Minghao that his new behaviour was less covert than he had hoped.

 

“Morning,” he smiles knowingly, twirling his company locker key around a pointer finger. Minghao’s fingers itch, desperate to snatch it from his smug friend, instead deciding to redirect the nervous energy to jabbing the elevator button.

 

“Hey,” Minghao nods, desperate to avoid his side eyes and the approaching conversation. The doors slide open and Vernon jabs the fourth floor button, midway up the wall. Leant back on the handrail, he smirks up at Minghao. But Minghao was not one to approach a battle without arsenal. If there was one thing that could get Vernon talking, other than Minghao’s (non-existent) love life, it was his (very much thriving) own. “How’s Boo?”

 

Vernon clicks his tongue, as if to say ‘well played’ but launches into a recount of his Monday evening. It was their — meaning couple extraordinaire Vernon Chwe and Seungkwan Boo — date night. Other than the most important fact that they literally live, eat and sleep with each other everyday, as Minghao has pointed out on several occasions, the cutest thing about the smitten pair was their designated night for romance. This week, Vernon had apparently enrolled them in a pottery class for couples.

 

“And so like, you’d think a graphic art major and an occupational therapist in training would be good at something like pottery right?” Vernon, overtime, has accumulated the habit of conducting, what Minghao calls, ‘interactive conversation’, which he had ruled down to being attached to the hip to a passionate conversationalist like Seungkwan. Minghao managed a nod as the doors ding open and the pair step out.

 

“Well, no sir. We were meant to make a jug, to be,” (Vernon waves his fingers in air quotes and pitched his voice into a feminine whine), “‘the vessel for our overflowing love’.” (Minghao snorts.) “But ours turned out closer to a plate. We were too busy mocking the pretentious instructor I think.”

 

Vernon laughs, gums bared despite the heightened caution to settle at a courteous workplace volume, which isn’t out of the ordinary. But the pang that twinged in Minghao’s gut is. Maybe, Seok and Gyu would abandon his plans one night to make shitty pottery. He can picture them too, giggling with clay smudges on their aprons and faces contorted into unflattering angles to try to make the other laugh. In his vision, Minghao is beside them, which he supposed was his brain of telling him just how unrealistic it was to expect them to be happy in his presence now.

 

He didn’t dare voice these thoughts, but he and Vernon had reached their lockers by that point. Vernon was waiting for a response, probably. Minghao was getting worse at reading people. 

 

“I mean, a jug is pretty useless if it overflows, anyway,” he says with a smile, stuffing his coat and chargers into the locker and making sure he had all his gear with him. Vernon just laughs and mutters something like ‘good point’ under his breath and they part ways with two very differing expressions.

 

Later, Minghao finds his eyes glazed over staring at his screen when his division has scheduled break in the try-hard trendy common rooms (with bean bags and table tennis and a pantry). It takes a shake on his shoulder from Vernon to pull him back to reality.

 

“Dude, you’re so out of it today,” Vernon remarks, but concern clouds his golden eyes, causing Minghao to bite the sarcasm that threatens his tongue. 

 

Minghao just hums.

 

“Chan made brownies,” Vernon tempts in a sing song. His hands are pushing Minghao’s swivel chair from side to side. Of course Chan made brownies.

 

He sighs then, moving his mouse to press the save button on his illustrator file to see it’s greyed out. He swore he’d made adjustments, done something, since he opened it. Maybe not. He is really out of it today. Vernon pretends to not notice out of courtesy. Minghao picks up his keys, disconnects his laptop from the dual monitor station and turns to face the younger. He smiles, but it’s not hard to see it’s fake.

 

“Brownies?”

 

“Brownies.”

 

Chan, like Vernon, is very popular amongst their division. Their personality is the type to charm most people without seeming like they are trying. But, since Minghao had taken them under his wing ever since he accidentally stumbled in on the other having a quite pitiful pep talk in the bathroom mirror, he knew the most out of all, that Chan, unlike Vernon, was anything but effortless charm. There was a reason they were known to bake brownies on the regular. 

 

Chan worked overtime, most of the time. They lived alone, in a small apartment, far enough to train in every day. The most outstanding feature of Chan, one both Minghao and Vernon had found themselves in awe in despite being far more experienced, was their work ethic. Chan, fresh out of a business management and economics degree, had applied to the advertising and web design firm on a whim, promising hard work despite their lacking experience and training. They’d got the job, more as a paid assistant than anything else, but as promised, worked their ass off until they became one of the most efficient and sort after designers in the division. They were quite possibly only second to Minghao. 

 

When the pair enter the common room (a trendy excuse for a more “fun” break room) Chan’s wearing a bright yellow cropped hoodie and a smile that is somehow even brighter. Their company polo peeks from in between the crop and trendy mum jeans, and their brownies are held out in front of them as another hungry staff — Carlin — takes one with a hurried thanks. Minghao almost scowls at their mid-day enthusiasm.

 

His scowl fades as Chan’s grin widens slightly and shakes the tupperware in Minghao’s direction. “I saved you a corner piece. You said the crust’s the best bit, right?”

 

Minghao feels the tension between his brows melt away. He nudges their shoulder and ruffles their hair in gratitude. “You’re a lifesaver Channie.”

 

The younger blushes slightly, cheeks tinting the colour of their pastel rose nails, and shrugs off the affection. Vernon hands Minghao and Chan a fresh mug of coffee each, and as jokes were exchanged either side of him, Minghao felt truly at ease for the first time in sixteen days. 

 

He avoids his phone for most of the day. He doesn’t pay any mind to any emails or texts, only to the replies to the ones he’d sent. He’s eating a bagel on Vernon’s kitchen counter when he sees Seungcheol, Vernon’s landlord (and Minghao’s borderline friend with benefits) had replied to his text. Chan and Vernon are engaged in a tense battle of Splattoon when he reenters the lounge. 

 

“Keep it down, nerds!” Seungkwan hollers from the single bedroom where he is studying for an upcoming anatomy midterm. 

 

Vernon grumbles an apology and Minghao whispers ‘whipped’. Chan just pulls a grimace. “I can’t believe I get regularly bullied by a theatre geek doing a health therapies degree.”

 

Vernon smiles pitifully and rubs their shoulder. “Highschool hierarchies don’t help us here.”

 

“I heard that, Hansol! You’re lucky I love you,” Seungkwan calls out, which the other two flinch at, but just causes Vernon to break into the largest grin. 

 

Chan mutters, “I’m not cis, tall or white, Vern. No hierarchies ever help me.” but Vernon beats them in the dying seconds of the match and all is forgotten. Minghao sees his chance.

 

“So I hear Cheol is visiting after 4,” he approaches Vernon warily. The other rolls his eyes.

 

“No you may not use the bathroom my boyfriend and I brush our teeth in to suck off my landlord.”

 

Chan, over acclimatised to the dumb boys they consider friends, ignores the two in favour of fetching three ciders from the fridge.

 

“Nonnie,” Minghao whines. Vernon snorts. 

 

“You have a flat too.”

 

Minghao tried very hard to keep up his lighthearted act, “Don’t wanna.”

 

Vernon hisses as Chan presses a cold cider to his nape. “He had a fight with Seokmin and Mingyu, dipshit.”

 

Both Vernon and Minghao get whiplash from turning their heads so fast. Chan shrugs and opens their cider, silence ping-ponging between the trio. 

 

“Was I not supposed to work that out?” they laugh lightly, volting their body weight over the back of the couch. 

 

“How did you?” Minghao asks, unable to be phased by Chan’s unexpected intuition by this point. They shrug and pull out their phone.

 

Vernon swivels on his heel, just as Seungkwan waltzes in, sweats large and softly grey, melodic humming as sweet as honey. Vernon softens, like butter on the stove, then expands, like bicarbonate laced golden syrup. Minghao would have felt intrusive if it weren’t for the casualty of it all, each gesture content and just so. Seungkwan moves to continue into the kitchen, but Vernon slips a hand across the expanse of his chest and recoils to tuck him neatly into a back hug. Minghao felt cravings rumble deep down in his throat.

 

“You should go make dinner for your boys,” Seungkwan says, so lightly but with weight in his eyes, to which Minghao doesn’t fully know how to respond. Vernon mumbles a ‘they’re fighting’ into the juncture of Seungkwan’s shoulder and neck, hand drifting to soothingly rub his boyfriend’s lower tummy. Minghao feels dizzy trying to assess where Vernon ended and Seungkwan began in front of him — where loneliness ended and jealousy began within him.

 

“Well, duh,” Seungkwan says affectionately. Vernon nods unfazed. Minghao is tired.

 

“I thought their communication would skyrocket once the other two dummies got together. The trio have got three brain cells between them and Minghao owns two and a half of them,” he giggles. Chan laughs from the couch where they had begun a solo game out of boredom. Minghao tries not to laugh but feels his head lighten slightly. 

 

“Bold of you to make that judgement, Solie,” Seungkwan retorts, turning his head to peck his boyfriend’s temple lightly and tapping the forearms that rest on his stomach so that he can move again. “Can you grab the aspirin while I heat up a water bottle pack, babe?”

 

“Of course,” Vernon smiles happily, but not without concern in his eyes. Chan loses their solo match but doesn’t seem to put out, and leaves the TV in favour of pulling out a box or two from their bag by the door. 

 

“Herbal teas; these ones help with cramps a lot,” they smile knowingly and places the boxes softly on the counter. Seungkwan putters to Chan to give them a hug, kissing their fluffy long bangs softly in gratitude. They salute to their colleagues before throwing a thumb to the door. “Sorry lads, signif is beckoning me.”

 

Vernon bids farewell, somewhat understandingly, but Minghao has no such signif, nor need, nor hole where Minghao should return to. Minghao leaves once they start making out against the kitchen bench, microwave beeping as background music. 

 

He has already toed on his shoes at the sunken tiles by the door, when Minghao remembers he had never mentioned Seokmin and Mingyu’s new relationship to anyone, aside from his own anxieties.

 

The apartment sits waiting as he swings open the heavy door. Sun dances with breeze and sheer curtains, a warmth ridden triptych of contentment. Minghao sighs, breath as light as breeze, drawing closer to the open window on instinct. Seokmin had left it open again. He leans out, knees against on the arm of the chair and head immersed in the atmospheric hum of the street outside. His hands falter before the clasp, however, deciding to leave it open as fabric billows around him.

 

Minghao wakes at the sound of jingling keys and two boots clattering against the sideboard, cheeks chalky with tear tracks and shoulders cold from the dusk chill. He adjusts, eyes closed under the weary weight of his lids, and snuggles deeper into the chair that smells of weed, and Seokmin’s shampoo, and Mingyu’s cooking, and Minghao’s home. He doesn’t want to face his roommates, doesn’t want to have to change himself as they change with each other; but regardless, he craves them. As he had in his worst and best times, he craves them.

 

“What am I going do with you, huh?” Mingyu’s harsh whisper cuts through his thoughts due to sheer proximity. Without looking, Minghao can feel his breath on his cheek. The sigh he sighs is warm and damp, the hand that caresses Minghao’s unruly bangs is warm and dry. Minghao sits, trying to not breathe too hard or not at all, stilled like a glacier of too warm skin. Mingyu doesn’t see the snow storm whirring in front of him.

 

“If only you knew…” Mingyu’s voice cracks, more distant, and Minghao is overwhelmed with the need to hold the warm, envelop it all just to show Mingyu how much Minghao can take — wants to take — even if his own chill would dampen it. Selfishly, his eyes remain shut. 

 

“Why are we all so fucking stupid?” Mingyu mutters, almost in amused disbelief. Minghao is cold again, as the door opens once more and Seokmin’s golden honey voice reverberates across the flat. He’s singing half notes to some recent pop song, but cuts off after a desperate shush from Mingyu. Minghao decides to finally stir. The pair are hugging tightly, whispers interlocked by the inches of air between their lips.

 

Minghao reaches for his laptop, still in his work bag left dropped at the foot of the chair, and forces the anxieties that rush behind his eyes at the sight of his overflowing agenda. He won’t be stupid about it. 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is greatly appreciated! this is one of the works i am most proud of, so i want to continually work at it. 
> 
> also for those who had already read the last chapter, all mentions to shua as vernon’s landlord have been changed to seungcheol, who it is supposed to be.

Mingyu apparently decides five days is adequate breathing room before he brings up the infamous text message again. “How’s work, Hao?”

 

Seokmin shoots his Seokmin-equivalent of daggers at the taller boy, mouth scrunching unpleasantly. Minghao sighs. He won’t be stupid about it.

 

“Better,” Minghao says softly. “It was just a blip — the whole ‘sub-par’ thing.” He chews another bite of creamy pasta and sweet potato. “I’ve knuckled down; I was even given a solo interdivision commission.”

 

Seokmin whistles and shakes Minghao’s shoulder lightly. “Yes Hao! That’s so awesome, fuck.”

 

Mingyu smiles with pride, but Minghao can tell there’s a drift of curiosity. He waits, taking a sip of wine.

 

“So what was the distraction? Did you — do you — have a crush on a colleague?” Mingyu blurts out, and if weren’t for Minghao being used to literally anything to spurt out of his mouth, the sudden outburst may have come as a surprise. “Spending all your time at the watercooler making bedroom eyes instead of working?” (Minghao can’t help but cringe. What kind of teacher-aids does this seventy year old woman get his vocabulary from?) “Is it Chan? They’re sweet.” Minghao chokes on his sweet potato.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, if anything Minghao has a thing with that Seungcheol,” Seokmin pried, waggling his eyebrows as he wrapped a noodle around his chopstick. If Minghao wasn’t already choking, he’d scrunch his nose in disgust. Sure, Cheol was a kind soul and a good mouth, but both of their personalities were a little too similar in the wrong areas to mesh together like that.

 

“I thought you guys just fuck, right Hao?” Minghao wants to die. He can feel his neck grow redder than the wine in his glass, and not because of the wine itself, and figures Seungkwan’s suggestive eyebrows and Vernon’s obnoxious PDA would be better than this. He should have overstayed his welcome, fuck his good manners.

 

“Not exactly,” Minghao drawls, trying to be vague enough to avoid whatever direction his best friends had intended for this conversation to head in. “We’ve sucked each other off a few times.” He lifts his eyes from his bowl of spaghetti to meet two pairs of surprisingly neutral eyes. “It’s casual,” he concludes with finality.

 

Seokmin snorts into his wine glass, pitifully shaking his head. “Never in my life did I expect to hear ‘casual’ and ‘Xu Minghao’ in the same conversation.” His tone is teasing but the knowing glint in his eyes is easy to pick out.

 

“It is,” Minghao stresses. “I’m not into him,” (Mingyu and Seokmin snort in unison.) “— emotionally, sensually, romantically — i’m not,” Minghao says, voice growing softer and more intimidated. “But a boy’s got his needs, okay?”

 

Mingyu and Seokmin share a look — the type of look Minghao used to gleam over, that now causes pins and needles in his diaphragm. He feels he’s about to burst. “Just ‘cause you two can now get off whenever you want by crossing the hall to the other’s bedroom, doesn’t mean some of us aren’t lonely, okay?”

 

The snickering, glancing, eating, stops. Minghao knows it’s the first time, unintentionally, that he’s directly addressed the relationship that has left him like a tricycle’s stability wheel on a competent man’s bike. The air stretches like molasses, as does time. Minghao holds his ground. After the warm breath on his cheek and soft hand-written notes, he deserves to capture a little bit of silence of his own creation. The pair squirm wonderfully. No guilt even weaves it way between Minghao’s teeth. 

 

“We’ve, um,” Mingyu coughs, voice wheezing with shock, “Not been….. intimate, yet.”

 

“Oh.” Minghao suddenly feels like the sunlight of silence had flipped to bore into him, rotating the magnifying glass to burn a simple hole directly through his gut. Seokmin’s ears are a blistering rose, eyes unmoving from his hand where he is silently fiddling with his chopsticks. It hurts, a little, to know that Minghao caused this mess. Maybe, if he had just been happy, just swallowed whatever twisted jealousy of companionship, then maybe, he wouldn’t feel his world split apart like the headache that cracked his skull. Minghao mutters half of an apology, but Mingyu lowers his gaze even further and shakes his head.

 

“It’s okay,” he croaks, broken and quiet and saddened, as if he didn’t want this tension either, and the mould of guilt grows thicker in Minghao’s lungs. He yields his legs to move, joints chalky with grief, and the chair whines gutturally as it scrapes the floor. 

 

“I’m gunna,” Minghao croaks, but his mind isn’t clear enough to understand the look of griefed panic that flashes in Seokmin’s desperate eyes. “I’ll go. Don’t worry about me; I can stay at Jun’s.”

 

He’s a mess of limbs and half muttered apologies. He’s suffocating, scrambling for air in a room flooded by tension and guilt and emotions that are too raw to process. He knows he needs clothes for work tomorrow and more than the lint in his jean pockets to survive, but it remains like an itch in the opposing wall of his brain. He’s too occupied by the two pair of worrying — pitying, oh god — eyes pinned to his back. He grabs his keys and wallet and phone from the kitchen bench, dropping his back against the wall as Mingyu leaves the room. It hurts his heart more than he deserves — in this cold world he has built, there lacks space for self pity — but the cool plaster is calming as it presses against his shoulder blades. Minghao can almost pretend it’s a soothing hand. 

 

He fumbles with the laces of his boots, not entirely grateful that his socks are clung firmly to his now sweating feet — he’s so gross, he’s so gross, why does anyone tolerate him. He toes into one and slouches, almost ready to flee barefooted, before a brown head of poodle curls pushes its way into his blurry vision. Minghao doesn’t recall tearing up. 

 

Seokmin’s hands don’t touch his but Minghao feels scolded by their comforting warmth. He doesn’t deserve their comforting, he’s a terrible friend, but his hands tremble by his slumped sides and Seokmin takes extra care to double knot his laces like it is his first day of primary school. 

 

Mingyu drops a duffle — Minghao’s duffle — at Seokmin’s feet. It’s plump with clothes as it falls against the hardwood floor. Minghao wants to cry. 

 

“Stay safe, okay?” Mingyu’s voice is barely a whisper. They’ve been through this before. He and Mingyu were roommates in university long before the trio inhabited this tiny flat. And Minghao had a knack for running from his problems long before that. Seokmin’s exhale was choppy and wet as he opened the door. Minghao exited without meeting their eyes.

 

It’s not long after the thud of the heavy door that close noises scratch their way into Minghao’s hearing. He’d barely registered having pressed himself impossibly close to the exterior of the door after it shut behind him. 

 

“Jun, hey, so—” Mingyu’s voice pauses, a forehead-accented thud against wooden door follows, “Oh, hey Jihoon. Yeah, we’re okay.”

 

Minghao curls in on himself, tears teasing the precipice of his waterline like an electric fence. He turns to leave but can’t draw his shoulder blades away from where they connect to the door. He pretends the door isn’t there, that Mingyu is resting his head on him instead, that everything was okay.

 

“Well, not really. Minghao’s having a panic attack. He said he was headed to yours. Yeah, he just left. No, I can’t bring him. Yes, I’m probably the problem. No, you asshole, of course, he means the world to me. Can you just— put Jun on, please.”

 

Minghao has heard that pained and weary sigh many times, but this time only twists the knife deeper. 

 

“Minghao’s— he’s not in danger, breathe, he’s just having a panic attack. He said he’d stay at yours.” Mingyu’s voice seems strained. It was fine at dinner. “I don’t think he wants to talk to Minnie or I right now, so we just-” the syllable cracks like ceramic, jagged and messily, before he continues on. “We’re worried. Keep us updated please.” 

 

Minghao only hears the first few sounds of the garbled static of Jun’s reply before his legs remember how to walk again. 

 

Nothing would be as comforting as the real thing. 

 

He and Jun had history. Not in the ‘we fucked but it's all chill now’ sense, but in the ‘I’ll always invite you to my family Christmas lunch even if it means my boyfriend can’t be my plus one’ sort of history, or the ‘I don’t mind if you don’t get me a present on my birthday because we’re past that point’ sort of history, or the ‘you lead me through a highschool nightmare of being the new kid, and being the mandarin—speaking kid, and being the gay kid, all in one bundle of emotional unavailability’ sort of history. It was comforting, having someone omnipresent, and even as they were forced to prioritise the aspects of their lives which didn’t include the intertwinement with the other’s, there was a security in a past that had been tested too many times to ever break. The thought alone of Junhui’s calming mandarin idioms and herbal tea kept his eyes dry as his feet wound the streets on autopilot.

 

The front door is open and waiting as Minghao vaults over rail of the porch and onto the front veranda. Jun had moved into the sharehouse with Jihoon, his boyfriend, before Minghao had lived with Seokmin and Mingyu. The house, small and cheap and jam packed with dumb gay energy, had therefore been a constant for Minghao for a while. He walked through the open door, leaving his shoes next to the others there, and walks straight through to the kitchen. His hands were shaking, but god forbid he denied himself another dinner less Mingyu scolded the zebra-print impressions of fatless bone of his ribs. Mingyu. 

 

Everything, even in a house full of five housemates and a packed fridge of leftovers, reminded Minghao of the two of them. In their separate entities and now also as they were as a pair. The tears, which he had fought back under the prying eyes of strangers on the street, sent needles to his gut. He crumpled to the tacky lino floor, bag heavier than ever on his shoulder, with a takeaway container of (motherfucking) spaghetti bolognese in his hands.

 

“Uh, good afternoon to you too,” Yoon Jeonghan’s voice, albeit mocking and supercilious as it dripped from his flushed lips, was still as alluring as ever. He was a bit of a sadist, took full advantage of Jun’s generosity and broke hearts like glow sticks at a middle school dance party, but everyone in a ten kilometre radius fell for him and his smile. He had a heart, somewhere, so as he stepped over the pile of a panicking Minghao, he at least had the decency to gather two cups of water, and hand one to Minghao as he joined him on the floor by the fridge.

 

“What’s up buttercup?” He tilts his head to the side, the shitty kitchen LEDs illuminating a vine of fresh pinkening hickeys that curl up his neck. Minghao snorts into his cup, the bolognese resting pitfully on the floor. 

 

“Don’t mind me,” he trailed off. The light flickers, like the shitty bulb of Seokmin’s bedside table lamp. Seokmin. Minghao shudders. “Just dropping by.”

 

Jeonghan laughs at that, a charming laugh of sea breeze through windchimes, and drops his head to rest on Minghao’s shoulder. Minghao sniffles. Jeonghan is silent as he waits for a real answer. 

 

“Sometimes, boys are assholes.” Minghao’s voice is weaker than intended, less cutting and more fragile, and it plummets him back to a time of his first crush on a senior who danced like a god and had a superiority complex to match. He feels like he’s been heartbroken by his first crush all over again. He’s too tired to decipher why. The uncertainty tastes like metal on his tongue.

 

Jeonghan laughs again, quieter, like Minghao’s inner turmoil is polluting most of the noise traffic in the space. 

 

“I am a boy. And today is a sometime,” Minghao sighs, releasing a winded chuckle of his own. Jeonghan just rests against him silently. It lacks intrusion, but calms him, like toes into warm sand. Minghao has no way of counting the minutes before Junhui’s melodic voice echoes down the weatherboard hallway. Despite the comfort Jeonghan brings, the deep rooted iceberg of self hatred only now begins to thaw.

 

“Jihoon, don’t be greedy; Mingyu said he should be here by now.”

 

There’s a whine of protest from Jihoon. Jun’s face is smitten as he turns into the kitchen. 

 

“Oh, hey you two,” Minghao wants to cry all over again. Jeonghan stands, balancing himself on Minghao’s shoulder before holding out an arm for him to take. The thin man easily lofts him up and onto his feet, but Minghao contemplates lying on the chilling lino floor until the dustpan and brush of death sweeps away his corpse with the cobwebs and crumbs. 

 

Jun pokes at Jeonghan’s now deep cherry hickies but kisses his cheek in gratitude. “Thanks, Hannie bear. I think your boytoy is napping in your room still.”

 

Jeonghan shoots one last protective look in Minghao’s direction, before tutting back to the apparent artist of the masterpiece on his neck, ruffling Jun’s hair as he passes. 

 

In the silence, Minghao feels vulnerability wash over him in waves. Under Jun’s piercing concerned gaze, he has learnt very well that there is nowhere to hide. That, and the fact that Jun is a lot less gullible than people take him for, is what Minghao credits his ability to live with two selfish pricks. 

 

(When it came to emotional turmoils, neither of them were big talkers, more hug-it-out-ers. Well, Minghao had originally been a nothing-at-all-er, but Junhui had managed to weasel his way in.)

 

“Dìdi,” Jun whispers, saying more than the two syllables allow, and it takes less than a second for Minghao to fall into his familiar arms. “Oh, Hao.”

 

The wall breaks.

 

“Jun-gē, I’ve ruined everything.” Once he starts, Minghao can’t find it in himself to stop. Jun doesn’t let him either, knowing all too well that Minghao rarely shares the ink of his mind. “Seokmin and Mingyu and I were good and stable and— I guess I just figured we were being fully ourselves— but then they— they’re dating now— which I’m okay with— more than okay with, because they’re happy with each other— because of eachother. But,” Minghao inhales, feels the cool tips of the elder’s fingers through his thin tee shirt soothing circles into searing skin. “I’m also not okay. I’m— I’m not okay and I don’t know why and it’s eating me up inside because I love them so much and I can’t be happy without their happiness but I’m not— I’m not happy.”

 

Jun’s breath ruffles his fringe. Minghao feels like a flesh wound in snow.

 

“That’s a lot,” he states, and without much persuasion the simplicity of it makes Minghao breathe a little easier. Jun’s magic.

 

“It’s so much. I’m going to combust.”

 

Jun hums sympathetically, “Do you know why?”

 

Minghao pauses.

 

“Don’t want to think long enough to work it out.” Jun rubs his back, palm spread wide. Minghao thinks of the door that last separated him from Mingyu, and the dull ache that pulled from his sternum to his shoulder blades. 

 

“It is a lot,” Jun repeats, “But as my mum says, ‘too many emotions for such a lean boy’.” Minghao laughs snottily into Jun’s shoulder. “Let’s order takeout.”

 

They fall asleep on the couch, Jun’s chest prime real estate as Jihoon cuddles against his back and Minghao against his front. There’s no hard feelings (Jun makes sure of it), but Minghao pulls the highschool card before nuzzling into Jun’s arms. Jihoon, who had met Jun in uni, could do nothing but pat Minghao on the head and cling tightly to his big little spoon of a boyfriend.

 

Minghao wakes before dawn, twisting himself out of the heavy limbs of Jun the Octopus, and flips him to face his boyfriend. He changes swiftly, eyes in a trance trained on the cup with two matching toothbrushes and one toothpaste as he slips into fresh underwear. When he returns to the couch, the younger is out like a light, but Jun mutters something that sounds like, ‘Take care,’ and Minghao takes a box of leftovers before locking the door behind him.

 

It’s a normal coffee run. At least, Minghao tries to keep it that way. He usually gets coffee from Crosshatch Cafe on Tuesday, so Lance the barista greets him warmly as he shuffles up to the counter. It’s been over twelve hours since he ran out of his apartment in tears, over a week since he’s gotten told off for not working hard enough, over a month since his whole rhythm was set off kilter by a couch-cushioned conversation. Normalancy hits him like the embrace of white-noise and indistinct chatter of Crosshatch. It’s a little forced, but it’s there, and it’s still there, which means something.

 

There’s a boy waiting at the counter barstools, his older brother currently in front of Minghao in the line. He’s playing Pokémon on his DS, which reminds Hao of Seokmin. He can practically hear his woody morning voice making a clever wordplay on a Pokémon name, bumping his shoulder into the other two to get a reaction. Minghao watches at the scene that unfolds instead, as older brother pulls on a coat that’s ‘far too green to need to be seen’ as Mingyu’s voice snorts clearly in his head, and leave with large chocolate muffins.

 

It’s then, Lance already making his regular order, and the pair of brothers already out the door, that Minghao realises he is in love with his two best friends. 

 

It doesn’t come as a shock, but more as a relief. Relief that he isn’t possessed by an evil sprite who feeds off of the spoiled happiness of his closest friends. In actuality, it makes sense. Aside from the fact that it really sort of doesn’t, and he doesn’t even want to think about how they don’t need his heart when they have each other’s and— call him selfish, but Minghao spins on his heel and doesn’t think about anything other than the relief that he isn’t a cold hearted bastard.

 

His boots cross the threshold of the company glass door at 8:56am. Vernon smiles widely and Minghao smiles back. Vernon’s rapidly-lengthening curls are donned in an obnoxiously yellow beanie. Minghao lets the fashion faux pas slide as they step into the elevator. 

 

Minghao drums his fingers on the metal rail. His heart is bursting at the seams, but Tuesday tradition prevails, “How’s Boo?” 

 

Vernon rolls his eyes. “What’s up with you? No slander for my beanie? Who are you?”

 

Minghao chuckles but doesn’t resist. Vernon just snorts and keeps talking. “Boo was stressing over his exam on Saturday so we just had a cuddly dinner date at home.”

 

Minghao felt his heart soar in association. This no jealousy revelation is a good idea. “And then you fucked…?”

 

Vernon flushes red but squeaks out a ‘sure’, and the pair split at their lockers. 

 

Once Minghao sets up his laptop at his current rotational desk, his eyes don’t leave the screen until he feels Vernon yank his chair backwards. He had managed to compromise on the entirety of the pedantic list set by the high profile client, and within an hour had started on the palette and typefonts. 

 

“There’s a rooftop party tonight. It’s plus one so here,” Vernon grins, butt perched on Minghao’s desk as he slams two business card like papers down. “Get keen; Wonwoo organised this one so it’ll be good.”

 

Their company building was split by floors, but in addition to division common rooms, there was a communal space on the rooftop for all divisions regardless of floors. Often, this meant colleague mixers and gatherings, as apart of a push for healthy workspace living or something equally as pretentious yet equally needed. The division manager, Wonwoo, was a lean man with a quick witty brain and an eye for the organised. He appeared reserved, but was in fact a dork, and became close to the trio due to their excelling nature. It was nice, to have a higher-up look out for the youngests, but when it came to rooftop parties, they were forced to endure both Wonwoo’s wild side and the clean up after. 

 

Minghao is startled from his grimace at the memories of previous clean ups by Chan. They press a lot third business-card sized ticket into his hand. It’s matte black, with white sleek typeface and geometric gold segmentation. It looks like the sort of designs he made as a starter at the company. Must be an intern’s trial project. 

 

Minghao looks up to meet Chan’s smile, calm and toothy. “Take my plus one,” they say with resolve. Minghao flips the card in his palm and his stomach mimics the movement. “To invite Seokmin and Mingyu.”

 

Minghao feels curdled by the uncertainty he has brought into that statement. He was the one to ruin what would have been a given. 

 

“What about your partner?” Minghao doesn’t want to seem uncharitable, but he had a point. Chan shrugs one shoulder.

 

“They can’t come — sick with a head cold and whiny, the cutie. So bring them, Hao.”

 

They leave with no other words, Minghao’s grasp on the ticket firm. Why does his junior have to be so damn smart?

 

When Minghao opens the door to the apartment after work finishes for the day, he tries to soften his steps. Mingyu won’t come home until an hour later, but Seokmin naps off his night shift at this time. He doesn’t do more than sneak into his tight bedroom, change into casual-work-party-on-a-rooftop attire, and clean his teeth. It takes him less than ten minutes to be back by the kitchen bench, hitching his work bag back onto his shoulder, grabbing the (two) tickets from the front zipper.

 

He places them softly onto the stone bench top, as if the invitations themselves are able to embody the fragility of the significance they hold. Minghao shakes the thoughts away, sticking the fluorescent yellow note atop the two invites and sneaking back out of the flat without a trace.

 

‘there's a hang out on the company roof tonight for us and our important people. but it's only plus one. chan gave me theirs cos their partner can't go. so i have two. and you’re my two.’

 

Minghao texts Vernon, already halfway to his and Seungkwan’s flat, to ask to stay before the party, when he gets a call from Seokmin. His fingers shake more so than the vibrating phone. He picks up on the fifth ring, ducking into a street alcove. 

 

“Yep,” Minghao’s voice sounds strained even to his own ears.

 

“Haoie,” Seokmin drawls, tone warm and woody from sleep. Minghao swallows. “I saw the invites.”

 

Minghao pinches the bridge of his nose and scuffs his boots on the cobblestones. “Yep.”

 

“I’m very excited but I wanted to check that you weren’t forced to invite us. I want you to be okay,” Seokmin’s honey voice drips with gooey concern, and the last sentence is uttered from what sounds like bitten lips. Minghao feels his heart clatter and crumble. 

 

“Yeah…” he exhales, low and long, “I’m okay— we’re okay. Sorry about…” he trails off weakly, kicking his shin with the heel of his boot in retaliation for his stupidity. It stings more than he thought it would. 

 

“Hey, Hao, don’t. We’ve all been weird about it. Last night was probably for the best,” Seokmin, you gorgeous peacemaker, when will you pacify Minghao’s heartbeat. 

 

“Yeah,” Minghao sighs. Curse his foolish vernacular. Minghao needs him — both of them — to know his heart. “Please come,” the words are as sincere as he can make them (which is barely half of how he feels). His heart sits feeble against his windpipe. 

 

Seokmin laughs a dazzling melody. “Of course; don’t forget to collect us from the lobby. Love you.” 

 

Minghao intakes a sharp breath, his vision blurring with white hot tears. Something splits deep inside him, like an axehead to firewood with inexplicable downward force. He’s silent as his heart churns, capillaries tangling like kitten’s wool and spooling around his diaphragm and suspending the liquid in his bones. His legs are columns of lava, his breath molten ash, his body is warm, warm, burning, and he’s still silent on the line.

 

Seokmin hangs up, unbeknownst to him that Minghao shivers, slumping against the wall, before whispering into the rapidly cooling evening air.

 

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> give me feedback and yell abt svt on twitter @kinglychan


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its sombre tonite lads! also shua! i went back and switched shua with cheol and visa vi but also mingyu’s metaphorical pyrotechnic is now a matchstick okay bye

The first thing Minghao does once he lets himself into his friends’ apartment is volt over the back of the couch and press his face firmly into the cushions. The silence of the living room and clear lack of reception indicates both Vernon and Seungkwan are probably preoccupied, almost definitely with each other, and most likely due to Vernon’s obsession with Seungkwan in a button down. (Minghao couldn’t argue — Seungkwan’s broad shoulders, boxed off frame and tan forearms on display with the cuffs rolled to his elbows was a sight to make anyone swoon.)

 

Minghao pulls his lead filled neck from the cushion and reached blindly for his phone.

 

< _channie im at vern’s and theyre making out and didnt even notice im here send help_

 

His phone vibrates in his hand as a call comes through.

 

“What did you expect?” Chan’s voice is raspy but fond.

 

Minghao laughs but it’s muffled by the pillow. “Hi to you too.”

 

“Why are you even—,” they sneeze, “even there this early?”

 

Minghao flips over on the couch, feet thrown into the air. He neglected to notice one grey and one black sock. “Came straight from work after changing.”

 

Chan is quick to counter. “They said to arrive for pregame a half hour before.”

 

Minghao snorts, shortly forgetting his worries at the amusing mental image of Chan’s easily induced drunk state. They tend to get quite affectionate, flushed and bubbly, and paired with notorious drunk kisser Seungkwan and no partner to supervise, it’s a recipe for disaster that Minghao will probably have to cleanup. “No pregaming; it’s a work party.”

 

Chan laughs a tinkling sound. “Alright, alright, no pregame. Why are you there then?”

 

Minghao feels the ease of two curved lips pressing ruthlessly on his conscience. “Roomies.”

 

Chan sighs heavily, but gets interrupted by a high pitched whine on the other side of the line. Minghao thinks its emitted from a grown human, but he’s not certain.

 

“I didn’t know you owned a hyena,” Minghao’s tone is a little more snarky than the situation called for, but he considers it fair game for the jabs at his pathetic social life. Chan giggles.

 

“It’s just Shua.” (It’s the first time Minghao’s heard the name before, and it takes an embarrassing moment for his cogs to turn. He tries to keep the thinking silent, but Chan is a lot more attentive than people take them for.) “My signif.”

 

Minghao clears his throat. “I figured.” He hadn’t anticipated the conversation to turn to this. He rakes his brain for any possible reason as to why Chan had never mentioned the illusive Shua other than in passing. He’s so desperate not to fuck up. “Are they feeling any better?”

 

“I’m not sure. He seems to still be soaking up my doting attention, but I can’t tell if he’s genuine.” Chan is so fond, Minghao can tell by tone of voice alone. There’s the sound of rustling sheets, most likely an overly-cuddly Shua pulling Chan into a den of ill health. Minghao wants to coo. Chan yelps.

 

“Ow, no need to punch me, geez.” Minghao redacts his coo. “Sorry, Hao, she has a weird way of telling me I used the wrong pronoun.”

 

Minghao can’t keep up. He doesn’t need to try for long as a silky voice, nasally with a head cold, follows after Chan’s. “Is this Minghao? Finally. My baby otter probably never talks about me to you lot, right?”

 

Chan whines. “Don’t, Shua.” Minghao is enraptured with interest.

 

“Sorry, Minghao, but they get so red when they talk about me, they’ve not wanted to risk the taunts— Channie, you’re bright red even now, don’t protest.”

 

“I can hear you think Minghao,” Chan snides. “She’s genderfluid.”

 

Minghao feels like all he ever does is trip a step behind. “Oh, cool.”

 

Chan snorts but Shua sounds appalled. “Chan, what the hell? He didn’t know?” No malice is present, just gentle teasing and an utter absence of tension, and a longing sparks low in his chest.

 

Minghao laughs at the duo. “I didn’t know your name until now,” he admits bashfully.

 

Her scandalised snorts of, “Even my name makes you blush?” gets cracklier as Chan seemingly pushes themselves away from their sick partner.

 

“Don’t,” Chan hisses into the receiver, (which would be a decent threat if Minghao could pinpoint what exactly he wasn’t allowed to do) and hangs up. Minghao hopes Chan is alive by the time the work party starts.

 

He lets his boots fall down hard onto the arm of couch, body limp with fatigue. His phone pings from where it lays still on his chest. He can’t help but feel loneliness pitch yet another tent in his campsite heart. He knows all too well that romance isn’t the fix for cracks in his skull, can’t ebb the deep-seeded yearning of self-understanding, but he can’t help but stubbornly hold the hope that a kiss might mend the scratches on his knees from falling off of playgrounds and other things.

 

Minghao reads the text with his chin tucked against his chest and body unmoving, just to stop pitifully pining. It’s from Chan.

 

> _dont think we wont talk about the roomies situation later._

 

He gets a text from an unknown number shortly after.

 

> _hi it’s shua! i persuaded channie to give me your number. i want this supposed roomie tea so i can protect your sweet soul xo_

_ > p.s. if you’re unsure abt my pronouns, just use they/them til i say _

 

Her enthusiasm makes Minghao breathe a slight laugh.

 

“What the fuck!” Seungkwan yells from somewhere behind the back of the couch, and Minghao sees his mistake.

 

“It’s only me, Minghao; I texted Vernon to say I was coming over,” he pleads loudly, until Seungkwan’s breathing evens out. Vernon bursts into the living room.

 

“Kwan! Are you alright?”

 

“Minghao fucking laughed after being silent. When I thought,” he pauses, (classic Seungkwan theatrics), “we had the flat to ourselves.”

 

Vernon’s mop of hair, entirely disheveled, flops into Minghao’s face. Vernon pokes at his cheek from his position half over the couch back.

 

“Don’t scare my boyfriend like that.” His expression shifts from dead serious to a nonplussed grin, in the most Vernon of mannerisms, and pushes himself upright once more. “But hi.”

 

Minghao sits up. Vernon has fully recovered, but the tips of Seungkwan’s ears are glowing bright red. He’s in a crumpled button down, which he’s scrambling to cover his chest with, and, as Minghao guesses by his strategic placement behind the counter, no boxers. Vernon isn’t any better, back bare as he rounds the couch and grabs a random pair of sweatpants that lay there, only wearing boxers. Between them, they don’t even make a complete outfit. They were probably giving head to one another in the room over while Minghao had the pleasure of finally meeting (albeit via phone) their friend’s partner. Minghao can’t even bring himself to be surprised.

 

“Hi,” Minghao smiles. Vernon returns to Seungkwan’s side, checking him with a hip bump before passing over the pants. “I let myself in.”

 

“Oh, did you now?” Seungkwan squeaks. Vernon laughs wildly and flops on top of Minghao’s legs. Seungkwan whines, “Why are you here?”

 

“Seokmin and Mingyu?” Vernon asks. Minghao grunts.

 

Seungkwan enters the living area with pants and chocolate chip cookies. He’s habitually hospitable. Vernon said once he felt bad about the lack of accessibility to his piggy bank when his family home was robbed at age six. He hadn’t cried, however. Minghao had hoped Seungkwan and Vernon would get together ever since their awkward stage of Vernon’s long glances and Seungkwan’s boyish taunts when they were first flatmates. Minghao likes his bite.

 

“Just because you were sexiled doesn’t mean you can cockblock us,” Seungkwan groans. Minghao decides he no longer likes his bite.

 

His face is red as he shakes his head, and Vernon laughs softly at his boyfriend. “Nah, Boo, it’s not that. I thought you got past the exclusionary phase though? Didn’t we talk about this like, last Monday?”

 

Minghao groans. It’s barely been a week and he’s been spun in a circle all over again. His brain is a frayed rope pulling a conversation he cannot control. He grunts non-committedly and scrambles for a new conversation.

 

“Have you met Shua yet?”

 

Vernon and Seungkwan both peak their heads in eerie synchronisation. Minghao tries not to think of Mingyu’s puppy gaze.

 

“Chan’s signif. Genderfluid. Really kind,” he lists, but stops when he realises he lacks any other details.

 

Vernon’s eyes blow up wide. “No shit, you met them?” Minghao takes that as a no.

 

“We chatted on the phone, while you two were—“

 

“Nope!” Seungkwan says loudly. Vernon just looks exasperated but makes no move to give comment.

 

“They’ve got a head cold or something, but they promised they’d convince Chan to hang out all together soon.”

 

Seungkwan looks on waryily. “Convince…?” he trails off. Minghao shakes his head at the accusations that haven’t yet slipped through Seungkwan’s lips.

 

“It’s not like that Kwan, don’t worry. Chan is just like, really embarrassed and flustered about Shua.”

 

Seungkwan coos, flopping his head onto the back of his chair. He hums nostalgia from the crinkles by his eyes. “Remember that stage, Hansolie?”

 

The man in question just rubs his shoulder and grimaces, but the malice to be expected is replaced by nothing but pure adoration. “Yeah, you swatted at me more than you kissed me.”

 

Minghao doesn’t feel left out, necessarily — he’s used to playing third wheel (now more often than not) — but without his own memories, he feels a tier or two below. He can’t remember the last time he felt sweet toothily smitten without the accompanying stomach ache.

 

“Kinky,” he mutters, just to contribute, just to maintain his image, but he finds himself indulging at the gnawing at the base of his lungs. “Vern, do you have any weed spare?”

 

Vernon nods nonchalantly and flips his legs off the couch to stand, but Seungkwan grunts, “You can’t just offer off my weed, ‘Sol.”

 

Minghao’s eyes stretch wide. “I thought Vernon was the stoner boyfriend that drew you in from the goodie two shoes side.”

 

Vernon snorts from the kitchen. “God no.” Seungkwan smirks. Minghao feels left until last.

 

He pushes away the feeling until they’ve finished one joint between the three of them and Seungkwan’s sitting in Vernon’s lap, kissing lazily. He happily shrugs off their offers to stay, and promises to see them at the party as he heads out the door.

 

Vernon and Seungkwan’s apartment is nearly midway through his regular bus run from his own flat to work. He contemplates waiting for a bus, but pulls his thick puffy jacket snuggly over his shoulders and decides a walk might settle his floating head. Seungkwan visits a dispensary, he recently discovered, so his slight buzz feels luxurious and clean. He had chased it on purpose, but feels a little guilty at showing up to work (or a work function, at least) any more high than he is. One image overrides the permanency of his shoes on cobblestone — that of intertwined hands. Minghao had never craved anything more — not the physical touch of one hand to another, but — the pull of capillaries jumping across skin, signifying something more — something greater. He tries to cringe, or gag, or snort, anything to dispel this new (but also very not new) feeling. His heart coos at his own sappiness in the voice of two sunshine boys. It hurts, a dull ache, but he starts to wonder if it isn’t pain at all.

 

The loud laugh of Kwon Soonyoung somehow permeates through the glass walled facade, even though Minghao can’t even spot him. It’s surreal, Minghao marvels, until a hand presses onto his shoulder and his head is pulled up against a body. Soonyoung keeps him in a headlock as he opens the door.

 

“Minghao! It feels like I haven’t seen you in years!” Soonyoung was as about as dramatic as they get. Not only in the theatrical, but also in expression. His eyes scrunched with joy as his toothy grin widened his cheeks into pillows. His laugh, golden enough to convince him of travelling through glass, was like a rainfall of glitter. Actually, upon reflection as Minghao was lugged through the foyer to the elevators by the overgrown child, every thing about Soonyoung was glittery. Even now, as the grip is released for the formalities of a proper greeting, Minghao has to swipe some shimmery highlight from where his cheek had been pressed to the older’s chest. “Are you ready to par-tay?”

 

The doors open to reveal Wonwoo, desperately attempting to hide his fondness behind a stoic expression. “Don’t terrorise my colleagues, please.”

 

Soonyoung scowled, poking his boyfriend’s side (fiance’s side? At this point, Minghao wouldn’t be surprised). He tugs Minghao into the elevator too, hip-checking the younger into his manager-kinda-boss. It’s weird, but in true Soonyoung fashion, it’s sort of expected, and sort of somehow comfortable.

 

“He and I went to the same highschool before you even knew him, grouchy. Yank that stick out of your ass before I haul you into the bathroom and do it for you.” Soonyoung is as blunt as ever, it seems. Minghao grimaces lightly, because he doesn’t need nor want that mental image, but when he spares a glance in Wonwoo’s direction, the oldest is blushing a soft pastel glow, smiling a nose-scrunching smile. Minghao wonders dismally if he’s the only one in this cruel world trapped by such a tragic romance arc that the author forgot to finish.

 

It takes a little longer to reach the penthouse common room than their usual floor, but eventually the elevator opens to the ‘party’, complete half covered snack tables, a playlist of classical music and maybe three and a half sitting areas. Clearly Wonwoo was depending on party-person Soonyoung to decorate. Maybe Wild Wonwoo would be a mid-party emergence.

 

(Vernon had one day made a rather crude hypothesis that so-called Wild Wonwoo was merely a Soonyoung-induced concoction of cheap liquor and a remote-controlled vibrator, but Minghao didn’t want that mental imagery either, not then and nor now, shoulder to shoulder between the said couple arranging bowls and emptying bags of chips.)

 

Because of his self-initiated sexilement from Vernon and Seungkwan’s place, Minghao can’t bring himself to complain when Wonwoo smiles slyly and designates him to lobby duty after twenty minutes of decorating. Aside from longing for Mingyu’s long body to hang spare black tablecloths as makeshift curtains, or the brief moment where he felt himself wishing for Seokmin’s crowd-favourite playlists, Minghao had been thoroughly distracted by two bickering friends and milling around the common room to make it seem like this party was going to be several notches above any lunchroom break. Now, alone in the elevator, tinny jazz in place of quietly thrumming low-fi, Minghao was swarmed with anxiety— no, nerves. It wasn’t sharp (thoughts like pins and needles, not actual acupuncture) but it still stung. He was brimming with energy. He just couldn’t contain his brain from flooding with possibilities for the course of the night, (some negative, but some positive). He curses into the silence, only then realising he had again drifted into a suspended contemplation. It had become commonplace but Minghao was yet to think why. (He didn’t want to ground himself just to find uneven earth.)

 

Carlin greets him as the doors open and Minghao nods politely to his girlfriend, whose grip is secure on his upper arm and high ponytail more tightly strung than Carlin himself. Minghao flops onto the lobby couch with dramatic flair that would rival Soonyoung’s and counts the now ascending pair as two guests in addition to three pairs already upstairs. His task, as assigned by Wonwoo, was to count the guests and make sure only one plus one was allowed up. (Minghao had snorted at that— their humble firm was rarely the type to attract wild rebellion.) He lifts his head from where it had fallen back off the edge of the couch arm, the noise from the street filtering in as the door opened.

 

“Wassup, gothic bitch!” Chan’s bubbly voice echoes in the foyer as they throw up deuces in greeting. “I hate your guts!”

 

Minghao just laughs. “Hi to you too.”

 

“Shua wants to be your _friend_ . What have you _done_?” Chan scowls with great annoyance.

 

“Not my fault I simply ooze charisma,” Minghao flips his legs to the side to make way for Chan. They scoff but sit anyway. “I’m irresistible.”

 

Chan glances around the empty lobby and swivels to shoot the older a deadpan, “Ah yes, so popular.” Minghao gives them a shove.

 

“Wonwoo put me on lobby duty. Stay and wait for the others with me?” Minghao lays it on thick, eyes doe wide and lashes fluttering.

 

Chan sneezes but nods anyway. “We have to chat anyway. What’s going on with Seokmin and Mingyu?”

 

Minghao groans. It’s several moments before he graces Chan with a response.  “Things.”

 

“That’s, genuinely, the most you’ve ever said on the subject. Are they fighting or something?”

 

Minghao groans again. “No, they’re—” he runs a hand down his face in exasperation— “they’re perfectly in love.”

 

Chan raises an eyebrow. It’s freshly plucked and filled in. They sniffle their nose against the sleeve of their hoodie.

 

“You caught Shua’s cold.”

 

Chan scrunches their nose, but not because of an oncoming cold. “Don’t distract me with your now comprehensive knowledge into my life alright?”

 

“Rude,” Minghao plucks at a stray seam of the couch. The navy leather was starting to stick to his skin through his dress shirt.

 

“It’s too weird. Now, let me know far more than comfortable about whatever the fuck is going on in your love shack of a house.”

 

Minghao dips his dirtied fingernails under the tears in his jeans, scowling. “Love shack?”

 

“I know you live there, too. But clearly you don’t assert yourself enough to try and change anything about it.”

 

Minghao scoffs, “When did you get so blunt?”

 

Chan smirks, flopping themselves onto his thighs and pushing themself obtrusively into view. “Whenever you started being all Un-Minghao-Like.”

 

Minghao snorts and Chan cracks a smile. It hurt, just a little, to know he was so painfully obvious. Maybe his leaching crush on both halves of a perfectly stable relationship was exactly what had caused the discomfort last night. (No, Minghao was pretty sure it was the very false assumption that his best friends were hammering it out one wall over. Not exactly a swallowable entrée.)

 

“Sorry for interrupting, lol,” Vernon says into the silence, (including ‘lol’, very much out loud, and very much to Chan’s dismay). Minghao pushes the younger off to greet Vernon and Seungkwan, the latter taking off his coat as if it deserved to be taken right out of his grasp and into a velvet-lined cloak room. Minghao voices this.

 

Seungkwan just erupts in laughter, folding the peacoat over his elbow and ruffling the elder’s hair. “I’m not a snob, asshole.” Chan snorts. Seungkwan jabs Vernon’s neck, pulling his boyfriend closer in a mock interrogation. “Oi! What lies are you telling your colleagues!”

 

“Colleagues? You were almost naked in front of me not so long ago,” Minghao bites back. Chan almost gags.

 

“Do not gag at the thought of my gorgeous naked boyfriend!” Vernon exclaims, tackling the youngest into a headlock. Seungkwan squawks, cheeks heating furiously as he swats at Vernon’s shamelessness.

 

Minghao sighs at the mess of friends, but can’t help but wonder if all this turbulence could result in something more special. Not that he didn’t adore his best friends, but maybe, he didn’t have a place there any more. Maybe the natural path Minghao would inevitably wind would end up where he is now, Seokmin-and-Mingyu-less and still (maybe) happy. Maybe, Mingyu pulled closer to Seokmin in an attempt to reduce their tiring banter. Maybe, Seokmin naturally gravitated more to Mingyu, because their mouths connected directly to their heart. Maybe, he wasn’t a cigarette — wasn’t even a flame at all; maybe, Minghao was the hand that brought the match to firewood. And, maybe, his job was already done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come say hi on twitter [@kinglychan](https://mobile.twitter.com/kinglychan) or comment on how im going/ how to fix this mess


	4. Chapter 4

Or maybe, Minghao thinks distantly as he chokes on his own spit, the universe wasn’t quite finished with torturing him just yet.

 

Seokmin’s laugh is the first thing to assault Minghao’s senses, and it’s both the most comforting and assaulting thing (not unlike the first time Minghao had made the long trip to his grandparents’ house in Anshan after his grandfather had died and couldn’t recognise anything aside from the smell of his auntie’s cooking). The door is still obscured from Minghao’s line of sight by Vernon and Seungkwan’s amorous bickering, but Seokmin’s laugh caresses the air in the lobby, like a seam of gold ribboned through the earthy clay of the street noise. It unearths something benign in Minghao, even as his shoulder is jostled by Vernon due to a joke of Seungkwan’s that, to Minghao, had fallen on deaf ears. Simply because, the reshuffling aligns Minghao to stand squarely three feet away from the newest arrival. And, fuck, he isn’t sure if it’s a blessing or a curse.

 

‘It’s meant to be a casual work party’ is the only melody that threatens the blaring bass of Minghao’s racing heart. Clearly, Seokmin didn’t get the memo. His buttoned shirt is a silky pastel peach — Minghao was equally as high as the other when he had ordered it from the blissfully money-blind comfort of their couch — but Minghao is only now just noticing the way each button is capped by an enamel yellow daisy. (They look eerily similar to that of the tiny pins Mingyu had made relentlessly for an Etsy store that had lasted for all of three months until the giant puppy got bored.) It’s the sweetest, most Seokmin-like, of details, that it captures Minghao’s full attention until he realises Seokmin’s not wearing pants.

 

Minghao feels as though his memory is working in fragments of eggshells. Seokmin had never ended up wearing the shirt, folding it deep between school senior jerseys and moth-holed keepsakes the moment it had arrived, because they had selected an extra-extra-large in their baked haze. But at the present point in time, much to Minghao’s mixed dismay and delight, Seokmin had apparently been able to pull together — _literally_ pull together — an adept solution in the form of a dangling yellow belt and white heeled-boots that reached his calves.

 

Vernon slams a friendly hand against his shoulder, and hard. “Earth to Minghao?”

 

Minghao yelps, a pathetic strangled noise, and jerks his head in stuttering movements to the group of (previously considered as) his friends, each with varying attempts to stifle their laughter. He is quick to return his focus to Seokmin who, thankfully, hasn’t noticed the peculiar behaviour and is smiling softly at Minghao with intermittent glances to the door he had just entered through. Minghao knows  he has never been more compelled to brace Seokmin’s face with slightly clammy palms and place his chapped lips against every mole-dusted, sun-kissed, blush-flustered millimeter of the other’s face. Seokmin, none-the-wiser to the rose-tinted warzone that’s raging relentlessly in Minghao’s mind, just smiles even wider in greeting.

 

“Hao-ie, I’ve missed— We’ve — Gyu is still with the uber— missed you so much!”

 

His words are fruity but dripping with sugar, much like the watermelon alcopop he chooses everytime Minghao and Mingyu share a bottle of wine, but Minghao tries to not let that fault the beautiful sight before him. There’s a buzz of a text in his pocket that he doesn’t bother thinking about because he’s barely opened his mouth to reply to Seokmin before he’s rendered entirely speechless once more.

 

Mingyu must have gotten some understanding of the dress code for the party, but clearly not for Minghao’s sanity. Only half of the buttons on his tight starchy black and white pinstripe shirt are done up, tucked into even tighter dark jeans. There are tortoiseshell glasses he doesn’t even need perched on his nose, and bronzer on his cheek and chest bones. It’s as if the pair purposefully left the house with the intent to make Minghao melt on the spot.

 

“Sorry, our driver was talking about her wife and I felt guilty for leaving too soon,” Mingyu says easily, endearing charm oozing off him like it’s bottled perfume. (Only Mingyu would want to make sure he properly ended the conversation with his ride-share driver, not even out of pity but from pure honey-comb maple-syrup goodness.) He shoots a quick glance at the boy he’s sidled up beside, sighing, “Seokmin insisted on pre-drinks.”

 

Chan decides to break the collective silence from behind Minghao with a snort. “Kin.”

 

Vernon bursts into laughter and Seokmin giggles along, “You’re Chan, right? I like you already.”

 

Mingyu and Minghao’s eyes meet, with the intent to roll their eyes in well practiced synchronization, but there’s an indecipherable calm to Mingyu’s gaze that makes it hard to pull away from. He doesn’t even realise they’ve drawn him in until he’s standing closer to Mingyu and Seokmin than he is to the others.

 

Mingyu smiles, soft and sincere, “You look good, Hao.”

 

Minghao scoffs. He’d had under ten minutes to grab what he could, in his desperation to avoid prematurely running into the pair. It resulted in an outfit of a low-v tawny brown button up, the black jeans he wears everywhere, and his tall lace up boots. But the glimmer in Mingyu’s eye doesn’t seem forced, and Minghao wants nothing more than to compliment the breathtaking boy until his heart swells the same way.

 

“Do you have tickets for this event?” (Not the words Minghao had intended.) Mingyu arcs a neatly filled brow, amused.

 

“You mean…” he drawls, evidently not going to spare him the horrifying embarrassment, “the tickets you gave us this afternoon?”

 

Minghao nods sharply, wondering why it feels as if his high is wearing off already. His limbs are heavy. When did he forget how to talk?

 

“Thanks for the invite,” Mingyu says, but by the pinch of his lips and the way his shoulders fold further in on his tall frame, he seems nervous. Seokmin rolls his eyes laboriously but hooks his chin on Mingyu’s shoulder and joins the other in smiling reverently at Minghao. It’s beyond overwhelming.

 

“Who else would he have invited?” Seokmin laughs, honest and raw, without a hint of malice whatsoever. Mingyu bites his lip, Minghao is (very) quick to notice, looking torn between chuckling along with Seokmin’s teasing and jumping to assure the seemingly fragile boy in front of him.

 

None of that matters, compared to the way Minghao’s stomach vaults two-thirds of the way up his throat and feels his knees sink deeper with an increase of gravity. (Take it upon a slightly-tipsy Seokmin in a goddamn dress to say something so earth shattering.) Because, he’s right, who else would he have invited? Who else would he live with? Who else could he ever fall in love with?

 

The turmoil that welds the two soles of his boots to the polished concrete floor like ice on summer asphalt is proof enough for him that the was no one else to complete Minghao like Seokmin Lee and Mingyu Kim.

 

“Are you high?” Mingyu asks, furrowed brows drawing his face into that of a kicked puppy, and the purity of the sight is enough to catapult Minghao back to the present. He rubs his elbow nervously but can’t make his lips move. Seungkwan tugs his arm to the side, and ushers him to the elevator with the group. The final three couples are piling up behind Seokmin and Mingyu, having arrived some point before Minghao’s world being tilted point-four of a degree further to the left. Minghao laughs at his own foolishness.

 

“Only a little.”

 

Mingyu grunts, disappointed. Seungkwan notices Minghao’s internal freakout faster than Minghao’s actual friends do, and does what he does best. Seungkwan starts talking Mingyu’s ear off, (they’ve met countless times before, bonding over their overlapping careers in pediatric occupational therapy and child care respectively, and being just generally milkshake-bubbly personalities), and Seokmin chats with Chan like they’ve been friends since primary school. Vernon smiles knowingly, but stays thankfully quiet, so Minghao’s hypersensitivity to everything around him finally gets a breathing break.

 

He checks his phone, finally remembering the text from fifteen long minutes ago. It’s from Chan as indicated by the contact name ‘cheeky little shit’.

 

> _seokmin’s thighs out_

_ > minghao’s bi’s out _

_ > get your mans _

 

Minghao unconsciously times his spluttering cough with the ding of the elevator door.

 

(Wild Wonwoo is dancing four meters away from the elevator, nowhere near the music or his partner, and by the excited giggle from Mingyu, ‘wild’ wouldn’t cover the night that was about to come.)

 

< _it goes to his knees dipshit_

 

Chan laughs and mutters something that sounds like ‘no denial’, but brushes off the heads that turn to look. Their small cluster emerges from the elevator akin to the main cast of a poorly-budgeted cop-comedy, a line up of friends in varying states of sobriety.

 

Soonyoung’s accosting Minghao’s shoulders within a second as if he couldn’t bear the distance a moment longer. His lips are shiny with alcohol and even more glitter, and are moving so alarmingly fast that Minghao needs to concentrate particularly hard.

 

“Myungho, aren’t you excited for this party? It’s been so long— too long— since shitty highschool parties, don't you think? I should invite you along to the ones I go to nowadays.” Minghao darts a panicked look to his friends but those who are watching (Seokmin and Mingyu) only snicker behind their hands. “Oh— speaking of— Big Boy Choi himself ran into me the other day, grumbling in his old-man way, about how we three need to catch up for drinks sometime soon. Would you be a darl and—”

 

“Yeah, I’ll organise it, next time we—” he clamps his throat shut, conscious of the weight of the words on his tongue and the curious eyes pinned to his back, “Next time I see him.”

 

His internal battle goes unnoticed to Soonyoung, who, if was blessed with a tail at birth, would be wagging it a mile a minute. “Oh! And, Junnie too! I haven’t talked to him in ages!”

 

Minghao rolls his eyes, “Social media exists, you know.”

 

Soonyoung whines, like full out, one-of-Mingyu’s-kids-at-school-has-the-tummy-flu-and-won’t-shut-up-until-their-mum-comes-to-pick-them-up, whines. “So many buttons, Myungho!” he whines again in exasperation, as if it’s a reasonable thing to say.

 

Soonyoung gets over it quickly, and merely dives face first into explaining the intricacies of his workplace’s hierarchy. Minghao had figured Seokmin and Mingyu would wander off into the throng of web designers at that point, but once Soonyoung had ducked away to scurry after a newly emerged platter of vegan spring rolls, he turned to see the pair laughing just behind him.

 

Mingyu smiled dopily, if not a little dazed, at the man who had currently distracted himself with bombarding another of Wonwoo’s employees. “He’s so…” Mingyu trailed off, hands flapping at a lack of words.

 

“Glittery,” Minghao supplied with a knowing smirk, procuring a snapping of the fingers and rapid nods from the overgrown puppy. “He’s always been like that.”

 

“I’m glad you had someone like him by your side in high school,” Seokmin says quieter, a smile humming at his lips. It ignites something deeper in Minghao’s gut, plummeting him in his mind’s eye back to the more easily frightened Minghao of high school. Seokmin and Soonyoung are too similar, loud and shiny and caring, but in all the ways Minghao had outgrown Soonyoung like his school uniform, there were equally as many ways he had grown into the shade of Seokmin’s arms. Minghao isn’t inebriated enough to unpack the nuance of Seokmin’s smile in the middle of the party, deciding to press it deeper into his memory as he mirrors it as best he can.

 

“He certainly lightened up some moments,” Minghao hopes his weak words will tug the string over conversation back into a safer zone. “And—” (he realises a moment too late it’s probably the best to keep Jun out of the conversation too), “And, yeah.”

 

Mingyu tenses, like he’s trying to hold back an impulse for as long as it takes to calculate the risks, but slings an arm over Minghao’s shoulders anyway. “You got us two now, huh?”

 

His wide warm hand is splayed on his shoulder and permeates through Minghao’s jumper like a branding iron. Minghao can only nod.

 

For the next hour, they drift between several colleagues as a unit of three, redoing introductions first exchanged at Christmas parties past. It isn’t until Wonwoo manifests out of thin air, a bunch of candied cherries in one hand and gin in the other, and tells Minghao he’d ‘better go fucking dance and enjoy himself if he wanted to keep his goddamn job’, that they find themselves at ease.

 

There’s an area clear of snack tables, where Wonwoo had made him arrange softbox lights from the photoshoot room into some makeshift ambient lighting, that had somehow attracted a slight gathering of bobbing people. There is a smattering of fairy lights between the lamps and pot plants are scattered on barstools, which Minghao thinks makes it harder to feel if anything that has happened has been anything other than an indie film-student’s project. But the tug of Mingyu’s hand in his, the brushing of Seokmin’s shoulder against his as they are both pulled into the crowd, the soft laughter drawn from his lips like a prayer when Mingyu begins to dance but refuses to let go, all feels too tangible to be forgotten.

 

His phone chimes in the back pocket of his jeans, and Minghao almost immediately dismisses it as another pointlessly suggestive text from Chan, but the tone that dings is designated purely for work emails, so he finds himself pulling out his phone out of habit. He waves off Mingyu’s pout and glances down to see the division-wide email in his notifications.

 

‘ _You can all leave whenever you want but don’t come back until Thursday bc I’m trying to enjoy my engagement party but you’re all so annoying. JWW’_

 

Minghao laughs, loud enough that both Seokmin and Mingyu crane their necks to read the email.

 

“Who would throw an engagement party with their employees?” Seokmin wonders aloud, but Minghao can’t help but think it’s very Wonwoo of him. They’d probably, under Soonyoung’s request, have another party, more for Soonyoung, but it’s nice to think Wonwoo values the relationships he’s built with the few of them enough to celebrate an engagement. Even if Wonwoo doesn’t tell them until he’s closer to drunk than sober. Minghao takes it as a win.

 

Mingyu just mutters in disbelief, but doesn’t quite beam up again until Minghao tucks his phone away and clasps his hands around his two plus-ones. If tangibility is a goal, then tangibility he will grasp.

 

By the time the trio clamber into their apartment building with hushed giggles, it’s closer to midnight than Minghao had anticipated and Seokmin is loaded on one too many sugary ciders. He’s draped over Mingyu, dazed and flushed and happy, but he’s not anything more than tipsy. In Minghao’s eyes, as they all rest against each other in the clattering lift, Mingyu might even be more frazzled, despite his sobriety. His brows are furrowed as he adjusts his stance minutely, trying to make sure Seokmin is curled against his body with the least discomfort. (He’s also got his chin tucked over Minghao’s shoulder, but Minghao is trying to focus on the weight-limit warning sticker near the ceiling and stopping his heart from falling out of his arse.)

 

When they get into the landing, Minghao ducks to take off his shoes and Seokmin whines until Minghao unties his too. Mingyu hums as his own shoes come off and drops a hand into Minghao’s hair, warm and affectionate. The small transitory space is stuffy when packed with three people huddled close, and the energy that sparks between them makes it equally impossible for Minghao to breathe.

 

“Do you want some wine?” Mingyu asks, voice low and rumbling. Minghao knows the question is for him, only for him, as Seokmin doesn’t like the same wines they drink. He shakes his head. keen to sleep more than anything. The static sends needles straight to his heart when Mingyu thread calm fingers through his fringe, occasionally brushing his forehead with tender touches. Minghao unfurls his legs and stands by his side, Seokmin rubbing his socked-toes together hesitantly before sliding down the hall.

 

“Sleep in tomorrow okay? Enjoy your spontaneous rest day.” Mingyu is whispering without reason. Minghao nods. “Do you need something to eat before bed? I can make you something.”

 

Minghao reaches out, hand faltering slightly before he presses through to hold Mingyu’s shoulder lightly. MIngyu’s brown eyes are swirling with the sincere need to help, to serve, an endearing trait Minghao can’t help but miss. “Gyu, I’m okay,” he reassures. (Minghao wonders if the words are for himself a little bit too.) “We’re okay.”

 

Mingyu nods, slowly at first then frantically, and tugs Minghao into a hug. Minghao can feel Mingyu’s nervous smile against the side of his hair. “Okay. I’m glad.”

 

He falters and pulls back, and Minghao misses the lack of tension immediately. “Uh, sleep well. I’ll see you after work.”

 

Minghao thrusts his hands into his jeans’ back pockets and heads to his room. To his surprise, Seokmin is already there, long tee-shirt bundled at his hands as he fluffs the pillows of Minghao’s bed. “Uh, Seokie?”

 

The older turns around, smiles and slips under the covers with ease that Minghao is envious of. “Cuddles?” he says, like he isn’t dating their bestfriend, like he isn’t half the source of Minghao’s affection and emotional turmoil, like Minghao didn’t storm out of their apartment at the first sight of conflict. Minghao may have a weak heart, but he also has weak sense of self-preservation, as he nods dejectedly and rids himself of his party outfit into his boxers and a tank tee from a band he doesn’t listen to anymore. Seokmin and Mingyu, alongside the wondrous world of holding hands, had introduced Minghao to casual cuddling sessions long ago, but as he turned off his usual alarm for tomorrow and rolled to face the other, everything feels affrontingly new to Minghao.

 

Minghao wakes to a weight on his chest and a weight on his heart. He doesn’t indluge himself in staring, just shifts his weight gradually until Seokmin stirs enough. Minghao had hoped the mirage of a sleeping angel would shatter at that moment, but Seokmin just flutters his eyes blearily and smiles under the morning sun. Minghao has never gotten out of bed that quickly in his life.

 

Minghao pushes his fringe behind his ears, careful of his piercings, and velcros his frog-themed headband at the nape of his neck. His fringe is getting long, grazing his eyebrows, but the headband seems to do a decent-enough job. Seokmin is wearing a matching headband, with little horse ears poking up that match his hair colour. Mingyu, during one particular era of university when he had gained an obsession with sewing, had made the trio a matching set of toweling headbands. Minghao was the only one who had long enough hair (and a long enough skin care routine) to gain any actual benefit, but he had been the first to admit the three did look cute with their puppy, horse and frog designs and bare faces. Seokmin isn’t even washing his face, only in the bathroom for the sake of keeping Minghao company, but a few weeks after they had moved in, Mingyu had drilled three hooks to their bathroom door for each headband, the habit to always wear them when they entered was formed soon after.

 

“I think we should smoke less.” His eyes jump sideways to catch Seokmin’s pout before returning his gaze to the mirror to rub at his face with a washcloth.

 

“You sound like Mingyu.”

 

Minghao snorts, “No, I sound rational.”

 

“You sound,” Seokmin says, voice light and happy, “like you need a hit.”

 

Minghao rolls his eyes at Seokmin’s (cute) playfulness. The silence between them is the most comfortable in a long time. It cradles the room with certainty and trust, something Minghao has had to fight relentlessly to keep in recent weeks. Minghao knows he’s being paranoid as his mind drifts, no longer concentrating on the circles of exfoliating cream he rubs into his skin. He wonders, after Minghao stormed out two nights ago, if his two best friends cried on the kitchen floor as he did. He wonders if they cuddled up on the couch, brows furrowed in sadness and determination, and worked out a plan to fix _him._ He drags the washcloth over his face to wipe away his thoughts.

 

Minghao finishes tapping his second moisturiser into the apples of his cheeks and looks down at the boy beside him, crumpled in the tub and lips gracing spindles of smoke into the air. The bathroom is the only room beside their living space that has a window, but it’s far too small and high to be efficient, so the breeze drains the room of smoke leisurely. Seokmin’s smoking regardless, knees folded and socked-toes tapping sporadically against the faucet. Minghao makes grabby hands at the weed in Seokmin’s hand.

 

“Nah, this is my joint,” Seokmin’s retort is snarky, and followed by another hit for himself. Mesmerised, Minghao’s eyes flicker between the pulsating embers at the end of the rolled paper, and the slothful dishevelment of Seokmin’s bangs as stray strands fell further over his eyes. Seokmin doesn’t seem so entranced, reaching out for purchase on Minghao’s loose jeans and tugging until he’s forced to squat beside the tub.

 

Seokmin’s hand curls over his shoulder, tugging Minghao to bend awkwardly over the bath. The joint is dangling loosely from the same hand, which distracts Minghao long enough until deft, lanky fingers cradle his jaw, soft pads of middle-finger and thumb sinking into the dip between his mandible and cheekbone until Minghao’s mouth opens. Then, eyes swirling with the hazy tension Minghao cannot demystify, Seokmin leans forward, their lips brushing in the slightest, and yet most monumental, moment of intimacy. Minghao isn’t sure if his sharp inhale was to accommodate the smoke that now waltzed from Seokmin’s mouth to his lungs, or purely coincidental. Minghao was purely intoxicated, and it certainly took more than one shotgun to get Minghao high.

 

“What’s mine is yours,” Seokmin says quietly; if it weren’t for the elder’s strong grip, Minghao would be pooling on the tiled floor. Seokmin’s hand shifts only slightly, well-manicured nails grazing Minghao’s hair by his ear and the soft toweling of his headband. He knows his face is probably far too red to be pretty, but he can’t help but feel adored under Seokmin’s steady gaze. The hand bracing his face nudges gently until his head is turned, and Minghao remembers to breathe, exhaling the smoke that had been trapped for far too long. But Seokmin doesn’t shrug him off, just tilts his head back again, and the tone of his eyes hasn’t changed. His face crinkles further, eyes sparkling crescents, and it doesn’t take Minghao much contemplation to dart forward and press his lips against the mole on his beaming cheek. It’s fleeting, the warmth of the other’s skin cushioned against his freshly-balmed lips, but in a way it feels closer than the brief kiss they had shared, because Minghao could feel fires spark from embers at each point of contact — the curve of Seokmin’s nose pressing into the swell of his own cheek, and the faint hovering of lips against his own chin, and the indentations of fingertips against the curve of his own nape.

 

But before the heat consumes him, Minghao draws back, swiping a cautious thumb across the mole where he had left a smudge of his cherry-tinted balm against golden skin, and plucks the joint from Seokmin’s loose grasp. He stands, as if he hadn’t just broken character, as if he hadn’t been handed a glimpse of his desires on a silver platter, as if he hadn’t just _kissed Seokmin_ , and inhales low and steady from the joint. The smoke coils into his being, smudging all of his edges, but the aftertaste is a tad bitter now. Maybe, because he’s filled with a genuine motivation to smoke less. (Or, maybe, because he knows with certainty now, a fleeting shotgun will never compare to the warmth of Seokmin’s cheek under his lips.)

 

He stands and flicks it into the sink, where the water from his cleansing routine gobbles its flame greedily. He expects Seokmin to whine in protest, so when silence folds around his shoulders, Minghao glances back at the boy in the bath. He’s silent, one hand firmly on the ledge of the tub, the other, held tentatively against his flushed cheek.

 

“I, uh,” Minghao can feel his own cheeks mustering up a similar pink hue. “I better start some work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge thankyou to my clone alex ([@mingghues on twit](https://twitter.com/mingghues) and [@mingghues on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mingghues/pseuds/mingghues)) for beta-ing this whole mess! if anyone else has feedback pls lmK!
> 
> also sorry abt the wait but im not really cos i dont write this entirely chronologically so i have actually worked on this more than it seems as on ao3. minor edits have been made to ch1-3 but it's nothing drastic. (this is lowkey my favourite chapter)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for a blowjob thats lowkey just an excuse for dick jokes. its kinda unavoidable sorry. also angst muwahahah

Minghao had lasted not even two hours of scrolling through emails and spreadsheets, beside a quietly humming Seokmin who scrolled through his phone in his armchair, before he had gathered his things and muttered to the other boy about dropping by the office to clarify something. The excuse sounded weak to his own ears, but Seokmin let him go.

 

Minghao fumbles with his shoelaces as he hears the locks click, knowing he'll have to take them off quickly and line them up against Seungcheol’s soon enough. He’s well used to the routine at this point. There’s no tension — awkward, sexual or otherwise — when his eyes meet Seungcheol’s as the older opens the door without fanfare. Seungcheol is a man of contradictions. His hand is heavy as it claps against Minghao’s thin shoulder, but his eyes are warm and unguarded. He radiates gorgeousness from every pore, from his high cheekbones to long lashes to broad shoulders, and is intimidating as hell. But his laugh is that of a bright little sibling’s and he worries endearingly hard to ensure his friends feel safe and happy. They’d met through Soonyoung, who had been dating Seungcheol at the time, and they had helped each other at a distance to amble through university life like one would expect from distant brothers or close cousins. It was comfortable, but naturally they both started turning to each other for issues about sex, which turned into turning to each other for sex. Through Seungcheol, Minghao had navigated crushes he didn’t even know he had, helped Vernon get his first apartment with Seungkwan, and had also perfected his head-game. It was a win-win.

 

They fall onto Seungcheol’s couch easily. (There are two beers already on the coffee table despite how every time one is left untouched due to Minghao’s constant whines about how shit it tastes in comparison to Australian reds.) Seungcheol must notice a furrow between his brows, because he forgoes small talk for reaching out to Minghao’s nape and stroking the ever growing curls there. “Hey there, Mister Myungho,” (the use of the Korean pronunciation of his name a nostalgic epitet dating back to his highschool days), “You doing okay?”

 

Minghao scowls but lets the elder press open mouthed kisses under the line of his jaw. “Am I ever when we fuck?”

 

Seungcheol tuts a joking reprimand against the pulse of his jugular, the splutter of breath beginning to unravel Minghao’s nerves from frustration to arousal. “That’s not nice,” Seungcheol’s pouting lips press against his cheek, “That means you’re never happy when I’m around.”

 

“I’m happy during,” Minghao smiles, running his deft fingers along the other’s thighs and onto his hips. “And after, a lot.”

 

Seungcheol pulls away from his neck to chuckle and Minghao takes the opportunity to push on his shoulder and tug himself a little higher as he sits. Minghao kisses back, kisses in and down and on, and the control Seungcheol offers to him easily soothes the fuzzing noise in the base of his cranium that is having trouble shutting up.

 

Seungcheol pants into his mouth, pulling Minghao to sit on his lap to get any sliver of friction between his crotch and Minghao’s jeans. Minghao refuses him the luxury, knowing every quirk and weakness, and sits up on his ankles as Seungcheol leans forward to chase his mouth. Minghao presses his palms flat against Seungcheol’s chest. “What’s been going on with you lately? I feel like it’s been ages.”

 

Seungcheol scoffs and tugs Minghao’s hands to the hem of his shirt and under. “Don’t use a dad line on me. That’s my job.”

 

Minghao raises an eyebrow and creeps a hand closer to the waistband of Seungcheol’s boxers. The subsequent intake of breath please Minghao enough to remark, “You’re closer to a daddy kink than a dad.”

 

“It was one time— it just slipped out— you know what—” he slips a knee up into Minghao’s crotch which sends him falling to the floor with a sharp howl. His head narrowly misses the coffee table, instead, he tucks himself under the edge and spreads out like a starfish by Seungcheol still reclining on the couch.

 

“For real, though.” There’s a scribble under the table near his nose. Minghao goes cross eyed to try to read it.

 

“Nothing much, works been good, I’ve been hooking up with that one guy I’ve liked for years now.”

 

Minghao hits his forehead on the coffee table in his desperation to sit. “Sorry, what?”

 

Seungcheol isn’t looking dreamily into the distance, but Minghao wouldn’t say it was too far off. The younger hooked his chin onto one of his legs that hung from the couch, looking up to long lashes and big doe eyes. If this fuckbuddy of his fuckbuddy doesn’t offer to give the absolute world to such a man, Minghao will have blood on his hands.

 

Seungcheol just shrugs, the sleeve of his long tee scrunching like Minghao’s own nose, and pulls until Minghao is back on top of him. “I think I’ve finally accepted I’m in love with him.”

 

Minghao smiles, because Seungcheol is being such a Seungcheol, and kisses him softly, because Minghao has always felt the urge to repay the comfort the elder has brought him by being such a Seungcheol. He breaks their lips to laugh shortly, quietly, like a giggled secret, because, “Dude, same here.”

 

Seungcheol thwacks his shoulder. Minghao wonders why he’s the one in pain all the time, considering the extent of Seungcheol’s kink list.

 

“No, duh,” he smiles, rocking them slightly forward to have enough leverage to pull his shirt over his head. “You’ve been in love with Seokmin since he first smiled in your direction; Mingyu, even way before that,” Minghao isn’t even surprised at this point. It’s Seungcheol.

 

Seungcheol’s eyes flicker lower as Minghao tries to not burst into hysterical cackles. Seungcheol plants kisses like a gardener plants roses down Minghao’s chest, smiling softly.

 

“Hold on, let me get that for you,” he offers, the heel of his hand hand pressing sternly below Minghao’s waistbands, but maintains attentive eyes. “Anyways, there’s two of them, how did it take you that long?”

 

Minghao mutters ‘prick’ under his breath, pulling off Seungcheol’s sturdy thighs and shuffles back, pulling the older’s sweatpants off with. Even as Seungcheol’s dick springs weightily with freedom, Minghao nestles between his legs, settling into the comfortable bubble away from too many problems, and flutters his lashes. “It’s twice as hard,” he says, replying to the conversation in part, but by the blowing of Seungcheol’s pupils, the innuendo was also understood. Seungcheol pulls a condom from his pocket, swift and prepared, and rolls it on without a word.

 

“Anyways,” Minghao punctuates the conversation change with a stripe of his tongue, settling into control. “Tell me more about future Choi. Did you meet on grindr?”

 

Seungcheol groans, shuffling further into the couch as Minghao mouths the base of his erection. “He and I went to university together. He offered to let me join him and his date once, then we just kept at it.”

 

Minghao lifts from the tight suction around the head and asks, fearing for the worst, “Date?”

 

Seungcheol laughs, which falters in his throat halfway once Minghao bobs down again. “No, he’s like, perpetually single. Part of his core values or some bullshit. It’s a curse and a blessing.” Minghao rolls his eyes, twisting and nipping and sucking just enough to elicit breathy moans. “He has like— fuck, Hao— like two roomates, but they're together, and kinda kinky, so they don’t mind us fucking on the kitchen bench or anything…”

 

He travels off as his vocal cords die in his throat, hands traveling to tug on Minghao’s hair gently, the way he likes it. It would be concerning how routinely they carried out giving head, if not for how it would be perfectly attuned to their needs every time. Minghao lifts off with a hand pressed against Seungcheol’s hip bone, and kisses his squirming thigh.

 

“He better not be abusing your pathetic crush just to get good sex,” it comes from a place of concern, and Seungcheol smiles a gummy, genuine smile.

 

“You can meet him sometime if you’re that desperate.” Minghao pinches Seungcheol. “Hey, it’s valid to avoid your own love life by indulging in mine.”

 

Minghao swatts at his dick. Seungcheol groans lowly and shoves away his hand, too close to coming to find it pleasurable. Minghao just smirks and lifts himself off the couch teasingly, emitting whines from Seungcheol, before returning his mouth with fervour. Seungcheol’s always noisy — not loud, nor uses extensive vocabulary, but noisy — whining and whimpering every moment at every new sensation. It’s not long before Seungcheol is grunting hoarsely and falling over the edge.

 

Minghao wipes the saliva from his mouth on Seungcheol’s sweatpants bunched at his knee and hauls them back up wide thighs. Minghao braces himself for the life lesson to come, knowing from experience that sincerity can only ever be delayed, never forgotten, in the presence of Seungcheol.

 

Seungcheol just sighs, tugging them both off of the couch to the kitchen. He throws the condom in the bin and turns until he’s leaning against the sink, Minghao against the opposite wall, with barely a foot between them as they squeeze to face each other in the tiny space. “Look, okay. There aren’t many options, but at some point you’re going to have to stop whining and do something.” He fills two ceramic mugs with water and slides it along the small kitchen bench.

 

Minghao snorts into the lip of the mug. “You, of all people, telling me to stop whining, after your spectacular vocal performance five minutes ago.” He sips without looking up. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

 

Seungcheol reaches across the space with his big toe to nudge Minghao’s shin. The mess on his sweatpants has almost dried. “Enough of the puns, Xu. You deserve to demand happiness.”

 

Minghao tries to ignore the way the words clatter and tumble down his trachea as he breathes in. “Say one more sappy word, I dare you.”

 

Seungcheol just laughs, softly, knowingly, and it serves as recognition for the gratitude Minghao left unexpressed. It’s reminiscent of their earlier years, which thrusts a more demanding thought to the front of Minghao’s mind.

 

“Hey, Soonyoung said you want us all to catch up over lunch or something,” Minghao tilts his head to the side. Seungcheol smiles gummily and nods. “When are you free?”

 

Seungcheol chuckles into his water, before sliding along the bench to the coffee maker. “You’re still the same; always gotta help everyone straight away.” Minghao stretches his leg to kick him in the back. “I’m free today?”

 

Minghao hums, “I don’t know if Junnie is, though.”

 

Minghao slips his phone from his pocket but doesn’t get far until there’s a notification from Seungcheol for a groupchat with Jun.

 

_coups95 > hey junhui _

_wenjun > oh hey seungcheol! _

_wenjun > whats this? _

_ < are you free _

_wenjun > ????? context ??? _

_coups95 > soonyoung wants lunch w us _

_coups95 > and myungho being myungho _

_wenjun > right its today is it? _

_wenjun > jihoon cancelled plans bc of work so im more than willing _

_coups95 > :((( okay _

_coups95 > itll be good to see you _

_wenjun > yea! _

_ < ill text you the address once soon picks a place but it will be within the hour _

 

“So,” Seungcheol drawls, weaving out of the kitchen to the door to his bedroom. Seungcheol lives in a small flat for someone who rents out flats for other people, but Minghao has always known Seungcheol to be quite rational with self indulgence and exuberant in serving others. (Aside from the blowjobs.) Seungcheol strips off his sweatpants before reaching the door, and saying quite mischievously, “Is there any particular reason we’re avoiding our problems through busy schedules today?”

 

Minghao doesn’t want to continue this conversation again, especially when his past two attempts within the last hour have been anything but fruitful. He sends an update to Soonyoung about the plans before Seungcheol hums at his lack of response. “Oh fuck _off_ Seungcheol.”

 

Seungcheol returns with boxers on and an aghast expression, which does nothing but pull guilt to the forefront of Minghao’s mind. Attempt three, third failure.

 

“It’s tiring, okay? It’s getting to the point where it’s not even worth how happy I feel. Today I even—” He cuts himself off. Seungcheol is twisting at his own fingers from across the room. Minghao doesn’t need to pour his heart out to Seungcheol. He knows it would help him, he knows it has in the past, but Minghao doesn’t want to give himself hope by voicing his thoughts.

 

“Myungho…. what happened?”

 

“Seokmin was being flirtatious and I— at least I think he was, but when I say it, it just sounds like I’m projecting— or he was being all teasing and he— we shotgunned a joint in the bathroom and then— I kissed him on the cheek.” Minghao’s breath stumbles out of his mouth, fragile and weathered.

 

There’s a ping from his pocket before Seungcheol’s said a word. It’s Soonyoung, and the name of what is probably a hole-in-the-wall cafe because Minghao doesn’t know where or what it is. When Minghao looks up again, Seungcheol is still stewing on his words, but he doesn’t look burdened in the slightest. He does, however, look like he’s about to open his mouth.

 

Minghao beats him to it. “Lunch?”

 

It isn’t hard for Minghao to enjoy catching up with his three highschool dearests all in one place. Minghao didn’t have many to fall out of contact with in the first place, so, after graduation, he made a conscious effort to keep up his ties. They’d not all hung out at once in a while though. Minghao had decided diplomatically to let Soonyoung choose because he’d been excluded from the plans which had been made in a group chat (something beyond Soonyoung’s technological repertoire), but had neglected to consider what type of restaurant Soonyoung would pick. But it was okay. It wasn’t until after they had began to tuck into their super-priced ‘superfood’, and vaguely shared their own updates to their personal lives, that trouble really started.

 

Soonyoung places down his spoon to the side of his ridiculously $18 açaí bowl, and folds his hands on the wooden table as if he’s chair in a very important meeting. “So what I’ve gathered, is that three of four of us all hopelessly in love with someone but are far too chicken to tell them. So what’s the plan?”

 

Jun rolled his eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, Hoshi. As I said, Jihoonie and I are on good terms and talk very well, I just don’t want to scare him with the big adult steps,” Jun’s soft gaze at the talk of his partner switched to double-down on Minghao. “But the others should just quit beating around the bush and tell them.”

 

Soonyoung leans forward. “No, not you Junnie.”

 

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, pointing to the ring, dangling from a chain on Soonyoung’s neck, that catches the light every so often. “Well, I’d hope you told Wonwoo you loved him plenty of times before he proposed.” he sighs. “Or at least once, I guess,” Seungcheol adds, (because that would be a very Soonyoung thing to do).

 

Soonyoung, still hunched forward and engaged, lifts a hand to wave away Seungcheol’s apparently irrational statement. Minghao makes eye-contact with Jun with a raised brow.

 

“Don’t be silly, I’m not talking about Wonwoo, obviously. No, this is someone else— someone new.” Seungcheol pales, ever the romantic.

 

“Uh, okay, no plans then,” Jun scrambles to fix, “Ignore all that crush talk. This rough patch will blow over, and you’ll be back to marrying Wonwoo and growing old together,” Jun smiles but there’s an underlying unease that Minghao likens to a trainer at a tiger’s enclosure — wary of unbridled potentials yet to be tested.

 

Soonyoung scoffs loudly. “Wonu is my ride-or-die soulmate, you slutmonger; take that back. He and I know we’ll die holding hands in a retirement village, so we’ve agreed to be open to thirds or fourths or whoever we find cute. And I think Myungho’s friend from the party was unbearably cute.”

 

Minghao chokes on a mouthful of slush from his mason jar of iced rosé.

 

“He is so goddamn funny.” (It’s Seokmin, Minghao knows, because Mingyu’s humour is an acquired taste that literally only he and Seokmin are used to.) Soonyoung is still talking. “And the way he beamed at every new boring person,” (definitely Seokmin) “and his legs— oh god— his dress was so short and his thighs were so golden. And he still blushed at compliments or shrugged in on himself at attention. It’s like he doesn’t even realise he’s gorgeous!”

 

(No, sometimes, he doesn’t, Minghao ruminates. That’s why it’s _Minghao’s_ job to remind him of the fact as the elder pouts at his reflection in every outfit option before every night out. Well, used to be. Night outs are scarce when Minghao’s in a mood.)

 

All the while, Jun is glancing at Minghao in intervals of half-seconds, and by the crease in his brow, trying to find a way to stop the runaway train that is Soonyoung. Seungcheol looks equally as appalled, or torn between punching his high-school sweetheart across the face and cradling Minghao into his arms like a child who’s been told their dog died. Minghao realises he neglected to mention his foolish schoolboy crushes by name, figuring his dumb ass had already whined about them enough. As it turns out, he had been even dumber.

 

Somewhere between berating himself and trying to keep his jealousy at bay whilst Soonyoung stirred his deceptively-spirits-laden juice with honey-dripping eyes. “He’s, uh,” Minghao’s breath is like a slow moving glacier, “...taken, right now. And not looking for anyone else.”

 

Soonyoung doesn’t bother the subtleties of convention, not even an attempt to hide his disappointment evident on his pouting face. He slurps obnoxiously at his obscenely green drink, scrunching his nose, and Minghao is teleporting into the cafeteria of their old school and that one week in senior where Soonyoung drunk only weird blended concoctions despite it being interruption free revision week. The specks of kale wedged between Soonyoung’s teeth, and the hideous lump of tumultuous feelings lodged in Minghao’s heart, both metaphorically spit in Minghao’s face, because wasn’t he supposed to learn in life?

 

“Fine,” Soonyoung concedes. (Minghao likes to think it was the glass of Hulk-spew that changed his mind, so he mentally reverses all of the all of the mean things he’s said about the drink.) “I mean, you and him are clearly pretty stable, and if any one was going to join that mix, you’re both head over heels for that smoking hot overgrown-child man.” He lifts a shoulder nonchalantly.

 

“Do you ever, ever, think before you speak, ever?” Seungcheol grunts.

 

“Wait, what about Gyu?” Minghao asks distantly, thinking about hands and waists and unbearable assumptions he doesn’t want to indulge in. “Seokmin is dating Mingyu.”

 

Soonyoung just hums in interest, scraping the side of his ceramic bowl to gather another mouthful. “Oh, that makes sense I guess. But then what about you?”

 

Seungcheol’s hand is bundled tightly, knuckles pale, on the table top. “Myungho is. Single,” he grunts, like Seungcheol is at all affected by that fact.

 

Minghao literally hates his friends. His hands are dipping in and out of the fringing on his pant pockets, as he cocks his head. He reverts to self-deprecation quicker than it takes to recall memories of schoolyard isolation and being picked last for group projects. “Duh, that’s plain as day.”

 

“Nah, you’re so literally in love,” Soonyoung says, and Jun intakes a breath sharply and stands to pay. It doesn’t matter that they had agreed to split it all because Jun fixes Soonyoung a glare that he used to flick to the boys at school who were a little too aggressive when they bumped Minghao’s shoulder in the corridors. Minghao wonders if the lightness he feels at the words are due to Junhui and Seungcheol’s steadfast protectiveness, or if he just felt content sitting in the truth of Soonyoung’s statement. Seungcheol changes the topic as smoothly as a braking train, but all Minghao wants is to kiss Seokmin and Mingyu with his rosé tasting lips.

 

It’s only once Jun’s broad hand encases Minghao’s shoulder that he realises he’s due to stumble through farewells with his highschool friends. Jun lingers, in the best way, whilst the four mutter pointless promises about not leaving it this long between catch ups, until Jun is offering to walk Minghao home.

 

They’re sidling along the footpath, reminiscent of walks home from school filled with barely-funny insults, when Jun speaks up. “Wonwoo seems like a guy who has enough tact for the both of them.”

 

Minghao shrugs, because he does unless he’s in party mode, but then again that is Soonyoung’s default setting.

 

“I’m sorry about all that, HaoHao.”

 

“No, it’s alright. It’s not like he was wrong.” Minghao shrugs again. (He’ll be as buff as Mingyu soon if this continues, and won't have to heft around two dozen toddlers a day to get there.) Jun doesn’t hide his surprise well.

 

“When did you work that out? Hopefully not just then?” Jun winces.

 

“Morning after the night at yours.”

 

Jun exhales through his teeth. “Still fresh, then.”

 

“No scab yet.”

 

The restaurant wasn’t far from Minghao’s apartment but, as much as he wants to continue on his way and follow Jun back to the comfort of a comfort-free house, he’s exhausted. Jun says bye like he always does, with a hand patting the hair on Minghao’s crown, “See you.”

 

The stairs to his floor give Minghao barely enough time to work out if Seokmin would be awake, and if Mingyu would be home, but just enough to then petrify himself outside the door at the thought of walking in on them being gooey. As he runs his tongue over his teeth in deliberation, there’s still a faint twang of rosé that sits in the centre of his mouth, and the desire to spread such a wonderful feeling, possibly through kissing maybe the two people on the other side of the door, propels him to put key in lock.

 

There’s a rhythmic tapping that halts as he immediately steps across the threshold, and he can see straight through to the armchair where Seokmin is huddled, fingers hovering over the window sill. Mingyu pops his head into the hall from where the linen cupboard meets the pantry as he always does, but the lip tucked into his teeth tells a different story. The apartment feels like just that, an apartment, not a home, not a place of settlement and rest, and certainly not a place of certainty. Minghao thinks he may have missed their calls, by the way they seem equally pained and relieved by his presence, but he’d had his phone on vibrate and held in two hands like he always does in times of high stress.

 

“I went out with the boys from school. I walked the extra long way home to give you two some alone time,” he jokes, but it doesn’t even sound real in his mouth, less to the people it was directed at.

 

Seokmin shudders, and Minghao wants to shut the window and bundle him up before he notices the window is closed.

 

“Minghao. I—”

 

Mingyu looks so small, so disappointed, in what _or who_ , Minghao couldn’t tell. His weight sways to the foot that is closest to the taller boy, but he can’t until he works out what the fuck is happening.

 

“We—” Mingyu starts, face tightened and wrinkled in the worst way. He looks like how Minghao’s heart feels. Seokmin, even from far away, Minghao can just tell, is within an inch of tears, nose quivering and blinking fast. Minghao doesn’t know what to do, even as Mingyu opens his mouth to try again.

 

“We broke up.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . did anyone try the chicken? i thought the chicken was lovely.
> 
> (sorry for making soonyoung a little bit of an asshole i had to for the plot) ((also sorry for being an asshole myself i had to for the plot))
> 
> yell at me on [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/kinglychan) or [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/bledis_boos) or the comments below!

**Author's Note:**

> chat to me on twitter @kinglychan


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